Lucky 13
by ohgoditsbriony
Summary: Misfits. Superheroes. Dreamers. Love, hate and happily ever afters, all mixed up together. Lucky thirteen. —Sasuke/Sakura
1. the different levels of greatness

**project: **lucky 13  
**dedication: **definitely for tricky. this fanfic suits her. and i love her. that is all. ;)  
**disclaimer: **i do not own naruto. D:

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You're not going to believe me.

Shit, _I _wouldn't even believe me, and you're going to hate me for bringing it up, but I _have_ to. I can't just let this go — I can't just let this simmer, and stew, and _boil_, until it turns into something nasty and _big. _I can't forget it, and I've _tried_; trust me, I've probably never tried harder at something in my life — I've really tried to forget, but I can't. Not like I want to. I've got to tell you, even though you'll think I'm lying; because I need to put it out there, so you and Sakura stop asking why I'm acting strange, or why I look sick, or why I can't look you in the eye.

Besides — you know how bad I am at keeping secrets.

Something has happened. I think it's been happening for a while now, but I shut my eyes; well, metaphorically, of course — those things, those somethings, were still there, and I couldn't really look away, even though I tried to. But; but something is _happening _to me. I'm changing. I don't even know why, but I _am_; and I think it's an after effect of something bigger. I'll, uh; I'll start from the beginning.

But, _shit_, you're not even going to _begin_ to believe me.

I saw your mother.

Last night, stood at the foot of my bed. She was just staring — and then she smiled, walked over, put her hand on my cheek — she was really cold, I remember. She smiled at me, in a sad sort of way, like she knew something, and then she said it was going to be hard for me. For you. But I had to look out for you — we had to look out for each other. She said you'd grown up nicely — that she'd been watching for a while. And, all the while, I was just _staring_ — at her face, at her eyes, at the fucking _gunshot_ in the middle of her _forehead_—

I'm sorry.

But it's true.

Last night, I saw Mikoto.

* * *

I was at Tsunade's, and she was making coffee, and I was sat in the front room, just thinking — about how things hadn't been the same since Jiraiya passed away. And I can't remember what I said, but I said something out loud, probably about how he was a pervy old man and all that jazz, and someone chuckled. 'cept, it wasn't Tsunade, because she didn't hear me and, besides, she was in the other room. Even if she had heard me, I wouldn't have heard her.

So, I said, "Hey, old lady — have you got a bloke around, or something?"

She laughed and said, "I wish."

Beside me, someone else said, "She'd better not."

And I turned and blinked and there was Jiraiya sat right opposite me, as if someone hadn't shot him when he was in uniform just a few days ago, and he smiled and said, "Hey, kid."

I won't lie, but I screamed.

It isn't every day you see a dead guy, right?

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And that's not even the _weirdest_ bit.

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(un)lucky 13  
_prologue_

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—some people are _born_ great

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**one.**

Sasuke pressed his hands against his head, threading his fingers through strands of hair as he gazed blankly down at the ground below him. He paused for a moment; sucking in a deep breath, attempting to ignore the pain which suddenly shot through his head, running through his body until it became a dull throb. He rolled up the sleeves of his suit jacket, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, until he could see milky white skin gleaming underneath the light of the moon. Although the night was cold, he could feel beads of sweat dribbling down his forehead, soaking the collar of his shirt.

But he still felt cold.

His heart pounded, and his head hurt, and he grit his teeth, closing his eyes and forcing himself to relax, if only for a moment. The pain tore through him, once again, and he let out something akin to a squeak. It all hurt — his head, his eyes, his _heart_ — it just _hurt. _He visited her grave — their grave — for the second time in a day, and the note on the counter had flipped back into his thoughts. He'd felt numb, then, and the lilies in his hands had dropped to the floor, and he'd turned away. But then it felt as though he were turning his back on them, and on the past, and so he'd just _ran._

Past Sakura's flat.

Away from the flat — _their_ flat — where the note was.

He just ran and ran and _ran. _And now he was here, sat on that park bench and he was _hurting_. The memories always made _everything_ hurt. Made his head spin. His heart throb. Made him want to cry, even though he never cried, and he never would, but they made him want to all the same, because it would just be easier to cry.

It _hurt._

His hand moved down to clutch the material of his shirt, just above his heart, bunching the fabric up beneath his fingers as he sucked in a long, ragged breath. He opened his eyes and looked up to the sky. The stars weren't so bright, he figured.

The stars weren't so bright.

He chuckled softly, letting his hands drop to his sides; something wet dribbled down his cheek, staining his cheeks crimson — and, although at first he thought they were tears, he realized he was bleeding. Crying tears of blood, maybe. Pretty, pretty tears, each one sparkling like rubies beneath the light of the stars. A horrid blackness filled his heart. He let out another chuckle, but this time it was cruel — awful — and he straightened, swaying ever so slightly.

The blackness overtook him.

He wasn't Uchiha Sasuke anymore.

He was this — something _else. _He was rotten and tainted and sin; his heart felt pitch black, and it was difficult to breathe. He was the same on the outside, of course, but inside, he felt _different. _Broken. Shattered. Ruined. But, all at the same time, he felt this sudden rush of power; with these eyes, he could rule it all. Rule the world as he saw fit, or let it crash and _burn. _With these eyes, he could control Death — and as he looked around, the flowers, all neatly lined up and pretty in baby blue, wilted; their petals wrinkled, turning brown and then grey and then _black. _And he thought he could hear them screaming.

He took a step forwards.

With these eyes, everything he saw turned to ash, with even the slightest of thoughts. What he wanted to break was broken — what he wanted to shatter was shattered — and what he wanted to ruin was ruined. He could destroy it all, with his swirling crimson eyes. This power — this incredible, _unbearable_ power — it was something more. It surged through him. The branches of a tree cracked and broke; a bird stopped singing, falling stiffly to the ground; and the stars were blotted out, blackened by death itself. A late-night jogger fell to his side, wheezing, clutching his stomach, begging for him to call for help; and as Sasuke gazed into those hopeless, terrified eyes, he saw a familiar, kindly face swim in front of his eyes.

He fell to his knees.

The blood trickled down his cheeks, as he watched the jogger die, and he let out a sob.

"_Sakura."_

* * *

**two.**

When Sakura was young, she first saw death in the eyes of a baby bird.

She'd been only five, and she hadn't really understood; her parents had never truly explained it to her, even though she heard it every day — in a typical parent fashion, they'd wanted to shelter her. She was, after all, their only child; and not only that, but she was their only baby _girl. _She was innocent. She was precious. When they'd spotted her sat by the road, head resting on her bruised knees, gazing at the little bird with the broken wing, they'd been utterly horrified. What could they say? What could possibly explain why that bird was squawking so feebly, why its eyes were steadily turning dull, why its heart was thumping so feebly?

Why, eventually, it would stop _living?_

They'd done the only thing they could do. They'd grabbed her hand and pulled her inside; they'd distracted her with every toy, every film, every book they could find — and when Sakura was happily baking cakes inside, her father had crept out to the road, scooped the bird up with a dustbin and brush, and then placed it in the nearest bush he could find. When Sakura finally thought of the bird again, it was nowhere to be seen, and so she simply assumed it had flown away.

Still, you can only hide such a huge secret for so long.

The second time Sakura saw death, it was staring at her from beneath the glass lid of a coffin, and it was gazing through her grandmother's grassy green eyes. Her parents had had no choice but to explain then, and so they'd tenderly touched down on the fact that the old woman was no longer living, before immediately changing the subject to something else — to _anything_ else. But that was all it took for Sakura to realize that eventually _she_ would stop breathing; that the clock would continue ticking, and she couldn't change that.

Her parents had been silly, attempting to hide such a thing from her; because, as she lay awake in her bed that night, thinking of the glassy eyes of her grandmother, she realized she'd seen those eyes before — except, when she'd seen them, they'd been pitch black, like the night sky, and they'd been staring at her from the face of a pretty little boy.

Uchiha Sasuke.

He'd _seen_ death.

Those eyes _understood_ death.

They hated and loathed death, but they still understood it — and they were awfully close to it, as well. She'd sat down, one day, beside him — her with her pleated skirt and white stockings, him with his ruffled shirt and messy tie — and she'd asked him. Right out, she'd asked him about death — if he knew about death.

Sasuke had looked at her.

He had pretty eyes.

_Lonely_ eyes.

Then he'd looked away, wrapping his arms around his legs, resting his chin on his knees, and just stared out across the field. A breeze had picked up — just a slight one — and she'd been struck, even at a young age, by how beautiful he was. There was something faded about him, as if he were a memory — as if he lived the life of a memory, remembering a past time where things were better — and she'd suddenly wanted to protect him. To protect him from _everything_. From the world.

From death.

That was about the same time she learnt how to fix things, with her hands and her heart.

* * *

The phone was ringing.

Sakura rolled her eyes, stifling a yawn as she swung her legs out of her bed; she stood up, stretching, her over-sized t-shirt rising slightly, revealing a toned stomach and candy-striped pants. Grumbling softly beneath her breath, she stepped out of her bedroom, all the while swinging her arms, popping her shoulders, waking herself up. She pushed open the door to the living room, following the noise of the phone, and instantly scowled.

"The phone is _ringing_," she snapped, placing her hands on her hips, shifting her weight slightly, "Are you two night trolls incapable of hearing anything other than the screams of fictional zombies being slaughtered, or did you just really want to annoy me?"

Shino merely smiled, eyes trained on the screen in front of him, fingers flying across his controller as he watched the figure on the screen chop away at demons. The little man swung a large sword about, blood spattering the surrounding scenery, another zombie biting the dust — beside the little man, his companion — a large-breasted girl, with a short skirt and a machine gun — was moving just as frantically. In reality, Tenten was sat upside down on the sofa, legs sticking in the air, eyes fixed on the screen behind her orange-tinted goggles. She mimicked Shino's smile, tapping the yellow button and causing the woman in the video game to jump up into the air.

"They're not zombies, Sakura; they're Undead, and that's a completely different area of expertise. Shino and I are currently killing _Undead, _not zombies; there's a difference, y'know."

"You didn't answer my question," Sakura replied, because she couldn't quite understand her friend's fascination with video games and the virtual world.

"The phone's ringing, short stuff — go answer it."

"That's what — _ugh_," she gave up, throwing her hands in the air and stomping off to find the phone, ignoring Tenten's chuckle, and the fact that Shino was checking out her legs. Instead, she began to shift away clothes — dirty clothes, piled _everywhere_; one of the downfalls of living with a guy and a girl-who-_should_-really-be-a-guy — and comics and magazines, trying to find the source of the noise. Once she'd finally swept all of the junk off the table, she grinned in triumph, picking up the phone and pressing it against her ear.

"Hello—?"

_"—I'm sorry."_

Sakura blinked, brow furrowing. "Sasuke? Are you okay?"

_"I_… _I, ah, guess not. Could you_… _could you come and find me? I think I_… _I think I_…"

He let out a broken sob.

"…Sasuke?"

_"I think I killed a man, Sakura."_

* * *

She turned up right on time, in typical Sakura fashion. She was still wearing her pajama top, and he could see that she'd only hastily pulled her hair into a bun; it was messy, and strands fell across her face. It looked pretty like that. It suited her, really. He wondered how he must look to her, blood dried on his cheeks, eyes wide and frightened, crouched over the body of a young man in a black and gold tracksuit.

Pretty fucking _weird_, no doubt.

"Can you fix this?" He asked, and he was glad his voice didn't break.

She took a look at the man, and he noticed her expression was carefully calm. She shook her head, before reaching out for him, brushing her fingers against his chin, gently helping him stand. If he didn't know her better, he'd have said she cleared up dead bodies all the time. "What happened?" She asked.

He frowned.

"I don't… I don't _know."_

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**three.**

"…and if you take the total amount, and then multiply it by pi—"

The professor froze, eyes narrowing behind his bottle-top glasses, removing his hand ever so slowly from the board. A few of the students shifted, looking weary or bored; but that he could take. He could _accept_ that. He'd never been the most thrilling of people — and he taught advanced placement mathematics, for God's sake — but he just couldn't take outright _rudeness. _He hated it. He _loathed_ it. It made him sick to the skin; it made him tremble with rage.

All those years of high school bullying, no doubt.

All those years of being ridiculed and humiliated.

All those pretty girls, turning him down with knowing smiles and a nasty look in their eyes.

All those people who were _better_ than him, just because of a pretty face, nice clothes and buckets of ego.

And that — that — _that—_

Oh, he couldn't even come up with the right words, or the _polite_ words, to describe the insolent _brat_ who _always_, without a doubt, _slept_ through his lessons. It was awful! Unheard of! It was just plain _rude _and, what was worse, the brat _knew that. _He knew it grated on the professor, but he did it nonetheless, hands folded on his desk, head resting on those hands as he snored softly through the mathematics lesson. He _knew_ the professor couldn't stand it, not one little bit — he'd made that clear, long ago — but _still_ he continued to do it.

"Nara _Shikamaru!"_

The boy had the audacity to _ignore_ him.

In fact, the brat let out a soft snore.

The professor bristled, trying his hardest not to let it get to him — but he couldn't stop himself from crossing the room, his chalk still clutched tightly in his hands. The students whispered, sharing grins and sniggers, watching as the little professor with the wiry grey hair and the thick glasses marched over to the laziest slacker in the world. There was a moment of silence, in which the tension grew, and the professor found he was clenching his fists so tightly that his nails were biting into the palms of his hands. He let out a long sigh, in an attempt to calm himself down. "Nara Shikamaru," he snapped again, crossing his hands over his chest.

He mumbled something.

Other than that, the boy didn't even make an attempt to get up.

"Wake _up_," and, with that, the professor threw the stick of chalk at the other's head, watching as it smacked against the other's forehead before rolling to the floor.

Shikamaru blinked, raising a hand to rub his forehead, where there was a white smudge; he blinked again, before yawning and stretching, finally noticing the irate professor stood over him. He took a moment to look around him, gazing at each and every gleeful face, all of them turned to face him; and then he let out a sigh, turning to the professor.

"You were _asleep_," the old man snapped. "_Again."_

"Was I?"

"_Yes_," the professor's voice lowered to a threatening hiss, "You _were._"

"…oh."

"Is that all you have to _say?"_

Shikamaru paused, brow furrowing as he attempted to think of something other than the fact he _really_ wanted to go back to bed, before shrugging, a little half-smirk plastered across his face. The professor felt his features twist into a smile, before he could stop himself, and he turned away, immediately confronted by the watchful faces of thirty or so prestigious students. He was reminded, in those few seconds, of exactly how much he hated them all — these children, who had the nerve to call themselves _gifted_, purely because they were smarter than the other brainless dolts of their generation. Each one of them was no better than the other, all of them thirsting for a little bit of drama.

Well, he'd give them _drama_, alright.

He moved forwards, wiry little fists entangling themselves in Shikamaru's shirt, as he hauled the lazy brat to his feet — the boy looked vaguely surprised, before his features fell back into his permanent expression of sleepy boredom. The professor found himself growing angrier by the second. He wanted to _shock_ that brat.

Humiliate him.

And he did it in the only way teachers know how to.

"Solve," and he jabbed one hand at the board, "that _advanced_ equation. And I'll see how much you've been _listening_, you little _brat."_

Then he let go, throwing the boy back into his seat, disgust etched across his face.

"And if you _can't_, you won't be setting foot in this building ever again."

The professor smiled, then; a thin, cruel smile, which curled slowly across his face, because he'd finally defeated that brat. He'd never be able to solve the equation, of course; it was far too advanced for any of these _above average_ idiots. No, he'd been rather cruel in attempting to teach it to them anyway; but a few of them had begun to grasp how to solve it, after three lessons of studying. For each of those three lessons, that lazy brat had been asleep.

There was no way he'd solve it.

But instead of quaking in his boots, as he should have, Shikamaru merely smiled, lacing his hands behind his head and shrugging.

"That's _easy."_

* * *

**four.**

Karin frowned, crossing her arms over her chest as she peered at Shikamaru — her gaze wandered, and she found herself staring at the professor. Never before had she seen the old man so _furious_; and if she could tell her friend to watch his back, then she would have. But, in her opinion, he sort of deserved it; after all, he'd slept through each and every lesson, and it was hardly _polite_ — she'd gotten used to his narcoleptic tendencies, and his lazy personality. After a while, it became _endearing._

Besides—

She just _loved_ watching his mind work.

* * *

Shikamaru let out a long, exaggerated sigh, amusing himself as he watched the professor bristle — they'd never really quite seen eye to eye, after all. The truth was, he didn't sleep _just_ because he was lazy; when he slept, the best ideas came to him — the brightest and the most beautiful. The ones which made him wish he had the money to fund his ideas; wish that he wasn't just a kid who'd flunked twice out of college, for failing every test, despite the fact he knew every answer.

It made him aspire to _be_ something.

That really scared Shikamaru.

Still, the equation on the board was _nothing. _He lazily stood up, stretching his arms, swinging them backwards and forwards before tucking them into his pockets; around him, the students began to murmur. He caught crimson eyes watching him, and offered her a tired little shrug; Karin merely rolled her eyes, and a single thought filled his head.

—_you shouldn't stir him up so much._

_it makes you look like an ass—_

He shrugged again, making his way steadily down to the board. He wondered, briefly, why the students weren't fed up with him — this happened practically every single mathematics lesson, purely because the professor didn't understand; and, besides, Shikamaru enjoyed his sleep. Both of them were stubborn, although in a roundabout way — Shikamaru would never have openly admitted he was taking part in a war with a teacher, because it was petty and childish and _stupid_ — but it sort of _was_ a war.

He stopped in front of the board.

Distantly, he was aware of someone else sitting within his mind — and he smiled ever so slightly, shaking his head. Karin liked watching — watching from _within_ the mind, instead of outside of it. She said that was where all the pretty things happened. She said that was where she saw ideas blossoming, and that there was nothing more beautiful than a blossoming idea — and that was where all the raw emotions were, straight after they'd traveled from the heart. She said even the average mind was a wonderful place. Inspiring even to Karin, who was one of the bitterest people Shikamaru knew.

It was pretty.

He was sort of proud to know she liked his mind best of all.

* * *

—_hey, what were you dreaming about? _

wait, karin, no!

…_that is disgusting, shikamaru. i'm probably never going to look at you in the same way ever again, you dirty boy._

_i didn't even know you were into that stuff—_

* * *

He took it back.

It was _creepy_ she knew his mind so well.

* * *

After her initial amusement, Karin settled down, sitting within Shikamaru's mind, watching the thoughts and ideas spiral about her. They were all so pretty _— _little glimpses, like a photograph, of bright shining lights, and symbols. They floated through the air, briefly, before fading away, disappearing like smoke. It was all so pretty, those different colours _— _and that wasn't even the half of it. She stood, then, straightening and dusting herself down, taking one tentative step forwards, letting one foot follow the other as she got used to Shikamaru's mind.

She'd been there so many times before that it didn't take long.

There was a particular place in Shikamaru's mind that she truly loved; his _memories. _He might have found it creepy, and she knew she would have, but she didn't really care. It was as if she were walking down a corridor, at first _— _she passed the Thoughts and the Ideas, paused briefly by Emotions, before her fingers clasped the handle of the Memories door. She pushed it open, stepped inside, and was immediately greeted by a girl she'd gotten to know quite well, hanging about in Shikamaru's mind.

A very pretty girl, with a horrid scowl and bright pink hair.

—_hey, tayuya._

"Hey, Karin," she replied, waving a hand _— _she was wearing a low-back necklace, the colour the same as autumn leaves. "Is he still an asshole?"

—_who, shikamaru?_

The girl nodded.

—_yeah, i guess. though, he probably misses you._

"There's no use telling _me_," Tayuya replied, flapping a hand away. "I'm just a Memory. Go and find the _real_ me, and tell her that. I bet she'd slap you. And then she'd probably say she misses him as well. I know that's what _I'd_ do. Why did I move to Oto, anyway?"

—_just ask yourself that._

Karin gestured about her, and Tayuya turned, following her hand. Around them, there were various copies of the same girl _— _sometimes wearing a jumper, others in their underwear, one in a spotty yellow bikini, the other dressed fully in black _— _and Tayuya smiled slightly. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, that Memory is probably here somewhere."

They both fell silent.

"If you're here, then Shikamaru's probably doing something amazing."

Karin smiled.

—_yeah, i guess he is._

* * *

Shikamaru solved the equation in three point one four minutes.

The professor handed in his resignation slip only two and a half hours later.

* * *

—_i guess you could say you won that war, then._

Shikamaru frowned, glancing over his coffee at the red-headed girl, his brow furrowing. "Stop speaking with your head _— _there are people around," he spoke, clearly, before returning to the Sudoku in front of him. "I look as though I'm talking to myself. It's troublesome. People will ask questions."

Karin scowled.

"It's _fun_, though."

He didn't look up, before continuing, "And stop skipping into people's minds, without them realizing. That's creepy. And an invasion of their privacy. You shouldn't do that."

"But _that's _fun, as well," she frowned, crossing her arms over her chest, before re-thinking, reaching out for her hot chocolate and taking a sip. She placed it back down on the table before fixing Shikamaru with an intense glare. "Why do you always have to take the fun out of everything? Is it part of your job to be the police of everything fun?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I'll just answer yes, and we can leave it at that."

Karin rolled her eyes.

"I'm not a superhero, Shikamaru _— _I can use my powers any way I want to."

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**five.**

There was a black thong at the bottom of the stairs.

Hana was stood opposite it, glaring at it in the hope it would simply burst into flames; sadly, no such luck, and she picked it up, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger as she made her way up the stairs. On the tenth step, there was a bra _— _a pretty thing, she thought, black with little white love hearts and white lace _— _and she scooped that up as well, placing it over her shoulder. At the top of the stairs, were her brother's trousers and his t-shirt. She kicked them to the side, picked up the little miniskirt beside it, and searched frantically about for a female top.

It was incredible.

The girl _— _whoever she was _— _had taken off her underwear before her actual top, and had somehow managed to lose the latter item of clothing; unless it was in her brother's bedroom. There was every chance it was in there, with them. She strode over to the room, knocked once on the door, before stepping in, ignoring her brother's splutters of protest. She threw the clothes at the girl _— _prettier than the usual ones, with brown eyes and freckles _—, _fixing her with her best glare.

"Get dressed and _leave."_

"Fuck, _Hana—" _

She glowered at her brother. "He's on his way. Unless you want her to be here when he arrives, she needs to get up, get dressed and get _out,"_ she turned to the girl, lips stretching into a thin smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You heard me. Now, be a good girl and get moving."

The girl's mouth dropped open in shock and horror, as she held the blanket against her chest; she turned once from Hana, to Kiba, to Hana again, before finally settling for Kiba, fixing him with a look which said you slept with me last night, now _fix_ this. Kiba shrugged, though, smiling ever so slightly as he swung his legs out of the bed, standing and stretching. "Sorry, babe," he murmured, reaching for his boxers, which had somehow ended up swinging from the light bulb. "You probably ought to get dressed. If it's any consolation, though, I really want to meet up with you again, at some point."

The girl smiled.

"Oh, Kiba _— _you _have_ my number."

"Yeah, I know," her brother replied, with a wink.

Hana rolled her eyes, turning and leaving the room. Sure, Kiba probably _did_ have her number — but it was tucked safely in his socks drawer, along with about fifty _other_ numbers, written on sugar wrappers, napkins, old bus tickets. He kept them. He collected them. And he never phoned them back, even though he said he would, because he was like that. Hana retreated into her bedroom, throwing open her wardrobe and choosing a couple of t-shirts, a couple of pairs of trousers, and then placing them in the backpack she kept beside her bed. She knew Kiba would be doing the same thing.

Eventually, that girl would realize her brother _wasn't_ a good guy.

* * *

"Hey, do you have any money?"

Kiba blinked, peering at the girl. Oh, she was pretty, of course, but that was why he'd picked her. That was why he picked _anyone. _They had to be pretty enough to distract him from the ugly; they had to be able to distract him from all the cruel, and all the horror, in his life; and so he frowned, biting his lip, patting his pockets down. Nothing. He glanced, absently, at her phone number, scrawled hastily on a train ticket, and then back up at her.

He liked her freckles.

They were cute.

"Actually, no," he pulled a face. "Sorry, babe, but I'm sure you can walk, right? Burn some calories, or whatever."

The girl scowled, drew back her hand, and then slapped him. He blinked, touching the cheek — it sort of stung, actually — and he blinked again, looking at her. She was angry; she slapped him again, her lips sculpting the words he'd heard so many times; the words he knew so well. In fact, practically everyone he slept with ended up saying it.

"You, Inuzuka Kiba, are a _jerk!"_

* * *

"Has she gone?" Hana called, from her place in her bedroom; her backpack was pretty much full, and she was now packing memories instead; a photograph of their mother, a notepad she'd kept writing in since she was six. "We need to hurry up. If we're not gone in the next ten minutes, then everything we've done. would have been in vain."

"So hurry up then," Kiba replied, still rubbing his cheek, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he leant against her bedroom wall. "I've been packed since we bought this house, sis. All we're waiting for is you."

"Funny. How's your cheek?"

"Fuck off, Hana."

She chuckled, shaking her head slightly.

"Are we taking the car?"

"No."

"How come?"

"It's at the garage. It broke down again."

"_Again? _Why don't we just buy another one? Or steal one. Or, y'know, I could _make_ one, if you gave me enough shit to make it from," Kiba said, crossing his arms over his chest and raising an eyebrow.

Hana frowned, shaking her head. "No. Firstly, we don't have the money to buy a car. Secondly, we're not stealing _anything. _Not for our gain. Only for mum; we _promised _her that. Well, we sort of promised her that. And, third, I don't think you could do it. You're not practiced enough. You can't always control it. Don't run until you can walk, and all that jazz.

You might end up _dead."_

* * *

Ibiki frowned, as he pulled up outside the house, bringing his car to a smooth halt. He paused for a moment, peering out of the windscreen up at the house; it was old and battered and unfit for inhabitation, in his opinion, and he wrinkled his nose. A window on the second floor was entirely shattered; the rest had all been boarded up, and there was a hole in the door, down by the bottom, big enough for a mouse to fit through. The paint was peeling off the walls, and the grass in the front garden was wild; it had grown to a ridiculous height, to the point where it brushed against his thighs, as he walked steadily up to the front door.

He wiggled the handle.

As he'd expected, it was locked.

He sighed, shifting his weight to his left foot, drawing his fist up to his chest; then, without a moment of hesitation, he punched forwards, with all his might. His fist thudded through the door, just to the left of the handle, and splinters rained down to the floor; he reached around the door, wiggling the handle until the lock clicked and the door slid open.

He stepped inside.

"_…shit."_

The house was practically empty. Only a few things remained — a battered leather jacket, unwashed cutlery, an odd pair of socks — stupid things, which weren't really needed anyway. He took the stairs two at a time, irritated; because he _knew_ they wouldn't be there, and the state of their bedrooms merely confirmed that fact. A wardrobe had been entirely ransacked; the bed covers were messy. He scowled, let out a frustrated sigh, and then raced back downstairs again.

The backdoor was open.

Ibiki swore beneath his breath. He was too late, _again._

They were _gone._

* * *

"Hey, Hana."

"Hm?"

"Is there something wrong with me?"

"…no, of course not. You have a gift. It might seem scary, or weird, or wrong, and if people knew, they might say something was wrong with you, but I know there's nothing wrong with you. Well, there's _everything_ wrong with you, because you're my little brother, and you're gross and icky and a jerk, but there's nothing wrong with your… with your _power._ No, it's perfect.

You're perfect.

There's everything wrong with you, but I wouldn't have you any other way. Now, run faster, idiot."

* * *

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* * *

**six.**

When Gaara was little, he used to build sandcastles.

He'd go out early in the morning, away from his brother and sister, and head out with a bucket and spade; he'd walk for a little while, until the city of Suna turned into the beginnings of a desert, and then he'd sit down and dig. He'd dig until he had enough sand to build his first castle, and he'd pack it up inside the bucket, turn it upside down, and given it the magic tap. When he'd pulled the bucket away, the sandcastle had been perfect. He'd built more and more and more, around him in a circle, until it was around about nine o'clock; then he'd head back to his house, and his siblings would be awake.

As time passed, he didn't need the bucket and spade anymore. He'd just use his hands, and then he'd _think_ it in to shape. He would move his fingers, and the sand would shift beneath them; and, at first, he was amazed. He raised his left hand into the air — and, below those fingers, the sand began to shudder and shake, before a few grains slipped upwards; and, as time passed, he began to move _more_ sand.

He felt as though he could do anything.

He was ten years old when his father found out; at first, he didn't know how to take it. The idea that his son could be so _weird. _A mutant. A freak. No, it wouldn't do anything for his reputation, either; his father was an influential businessman. He'd done the only thing he knew how to do — thrown cash at the problem, in the hope it would go away. When Temari hit sixteen, he bought the siblings a flat, on the far side of Suna, closest to the train station, as if he were trying to say something.

Gaara'd never known how to take a hint.

He was too young, at the time, to understand the hint, anyway.

* * *

When he was younger, he'd hated high school.

He was _weird._

Not a _good_ weird — good weird was for the girls with the rainbow hair, and the skinny jeans, because they were a little bit odd. Good weird was for the boys who cried at romantic comedies, because they were just a little bit sensitive and a little bit different. Good weird was for the people who wore the black eyeliner and the black lipstick and the black clothes, because they didn't want to conform to society norms. They were good weird. They were an acceptable weird.

He was _bad _weird.

He was the sort of weird no one wanted to talk to. He was the sort of weird people shifted away from. Even the teachers saw it. He didn't _look_ weird, not straight away; no, he couldn't afford to look weird. If he did, there would have been no chance of anyone ever coming near him; because he just had a vibe.

A weirdo vibe.

That's why no one ever spoke to him.

He was so _lonely._

* * *

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* * *

**seven.**

"People like beautiful things, Ino."

That was the first thing her father ever told her. She was sat at the kitchen table, and he was sat opposite her, a vase of flowers positioned in front of him. There were lilies, daffodils, cosmos, roses, honeysuckle — and there were flowers she still didn't know the name of. She watched as her father shifted the flowers, the colours, until they fit; but the different colours still managed to clash, and yet it was beautiful. Wonderful. Vibrant, like fireworks.

He caught her looking, and smiled. "It's true. Your eyes have been captured by these flowers. You can't look away, even though you know they'll eventually wither and turn to black; but they are beautiful _now. _That's all that matters. This, I would assume, is something a bit like art. It's beautiful, right?"

Ino nodded.

Inoichi's smile widened, "Beautiful things get noticed, Ino. You'll be quite beautiful, if you don't mind me saying — after all, you look exactly like your mother. You'll be beautiful, just like the flowers."

His gaze fell back to the flowers.

"You'll be beautiful."

* * *

"Beautiful things get noticed," Ino said, gesturing towards the canvas in front of her. "Right, Sai?"

He shrugged, plastering his usual smile across his face, before ducking back behind his own canvas and easel; she watched, absently, as his arm moved backwards and forwards, painting vivid, electric colours across the page. She liked it when Sai painted. He only knew how to paint beautiful things; she had never once seen him paint anything ugly, like age or death or disease — because that could never be beautiful. Sai was a beautiful man, as well.

He couldn't paint ugly things.

She'd learnt that, of course, over time; and she liked watching him paint. She liked beautiful things. She liked jewels and clothes and flowers and rainbows and glitter — because it was pretty and, in time, it could be beautiful. She liked it all. She stood up, then, moving around the different easels to drape her arms across Sai's neck, linking her hands together, chest pressed against his back. He didn't stop painting, but his smile wavered, just briefly, and he seemed vaguely uncomfortable.

It was sort of cute.

"That's so _pretty_," she whispered, lips brushing his ear. "So _beautiful. _Just like you. Beautiful things get noticed, Sai, by beautiful women._"_

Her fingers closed around his wrist, and he paused in his painting, blinking; she used her other hand to turn his head to face her, tipping his face down so that she could press her lips against his. And, as she did so, a jolt ran through them — passing from her to him in a matter of moments. It pulled him closer to her, and his eyes widened; because it felt _electric, _and it was so _good. _His hand moved around to grip her hip, the other shifting her leg over his, and, tangled together, they fell across his easel, splashing paint across both the canvas and their bodies.

She felt a smirk slip across her lips.

It _worked._

Her power always worked.

* * *

It was like a kiss of death. Sort of. But prettier, beautiful, _nicer. _

One kiss, and they were under her spell.

And, oh, Ino _loved_ it.

* * *

Ino kept a list.

On it, were names, and she crossed them off one by one. Top of the list was Uchiha Sasuke — midway down was Sai, and there, at the bottom, was Uchiha Itachi, Sasuke's older brother who'd recently vanished. Sat in the bathroom of the girl's toilets, fixing her face and her hair, she pulled the list out of the pocket of her jeans, and, without another thought, she crossed Sai's name off. She hummed softly to herself, a small smile slipping across her face. "And another one bites the dust," she whispered, before grinning, letting out a little chuckle.

Her eyes met the eyes of her reflection.

Pretty, pretty blue.

_Beautiful _blue.

"Notice me, baby."

* * *

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* * *

—some _achieve _greatness

* * *

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* * *

**eight.**

_"You're the sweetest guy — but you're just not right for _me_."_

Juugo blinked, before nodding, pressing the mobile phone against his ear and dropping the bouquet of roses in his other hand. He watched as they fell to the floor; then, stepping forwards, he pressed one foot down on them, grinding his foot until the petals turned into a mushy red mess. Then, after saying a polite goodbye and promising her he understood, he threw his phone at the wall, watching with little satisfaction as all the bits of metal clattered to the floor.

Then he sat down.

He wondered if she knew he were just sat outside her house; that, as she'd dumped him, he'd been wandering up to her house, to give her roses and take her to the cinema and tell her he loved her. He suddenly felt as though the tickets in his pocket were laughing at him; and so he pulled them out and ripped them into confetti. Then, he put his head in his hands.

In front of him, his friend shrugged, tucking his own hands into his pockets, white hair falling across his eyes as he watched the other. He looked concerned. Juugo didn't blame him. Recently, his emotions had been extreme; ridiculously extreme, to the point where even he didn't understand them anymore; and he knew Suigetsu was worried. He just didn't know the right words to tell him _not_ to worry. So, he simply sat where he was, wondering idly if he should have kept the tickets and asked Suigetsu to go with him, or if that would have just seemed weird. Judging from the look on his friend's face, the other probably wouldn't have questioned it.

"Come on," Suigetsu spoke, eventually, extending a hand to help the other up. "There's no point in hangin' around here, big boy."

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

"You _guess_ I'm right? When am I ever _wrong? _C'mon, let's get out of here."

* * *

They walked in silence, shoulder to shoulder, staring in opposite directions. Idly, Juugo wondered what the other was thinking of; but then he took a look at the toothy grin, and decided he didn't want to know. Instead he sighed, running a hand through his hair, and decided he wasn't going to wallow in self-pity. All the girls he dated pretty much ended up saying the same things; that he was a nice guy, but he was too good for them — which was nice in theory, but wasn't so brilliant to hear as an excuse as to why someone had dumped him.

"How's your, uh_…" _Suigetsu trailed off, tapping his head and raising his eyebrows knowingly.

"My head, right?" Juugo replied, not even looking at the other, tucking his hands into his pockets and shrugging. "Yeah, I guess I'm alright. I mean, last night, I don't even _know_ what happened. I blacked out. When I woke up, I'd trashed the entire bedroom, there was blood on the walls, and my mum locked herself in the bathroom to _cry. _But, I guess, other than that, I've got it all under control."

"You should see a doctor."

"Since when were _you_ the voice of reason? You never saw a doctor when you flooded your flat — and there weren't even any taps running, I _saw _it. You were sat on the sofa, with me, and all of a sudden the taps just started pouring — and then you said, don't worry, I'll _fix_ it; and your arms suddenly turned to water and you flooded the entire _place."_

Suigetsu scowled, "Yeah, but there wasn' a risk of me _killin' _someone."

Juugo looked as if someone had slapped him in the face. That had actually _stung. _It had cut him right in the heart, and it made him _angry_, and he _really_ didn't want to get angry — not with Suigetsu around. They were friends. If he got angry, he might end up doing something he'd regret. The two boys glowered heatedly at each other, before Juugo gave in, throwing his hands in the air with a frustrated grunt, and then spinning to face the opposite direction. Sure, he was a nice guy, but there was only so much he could take before it was too much; and this, coupled with the dumping from earlier, was that too much.

Besides—

He really _didn't_ want to get angry.

His friend sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, as Juugo turned and frostily began to walk in the opposite direction — within a few seconds, Suigetsu was walking steadily after him. "C'mon, wait up, Juugo — y'know I didn' mean it. You had a point, and you _know_ how I hate it when you have a point. C'mon, 'm sorry, I _swear."_

He finally ground to a halt.

"Seriously, big boy — I'm _sorry."_

He fixed Suigetsu with a look.

"You're a dickhead."

"I know," the other boy replied, grinning sheepishly. "But you still love me, right? Otherwise, I'd probably get abandonment issues, and you wouldn' want to see that, I promise you. Besides, you wouldn' have me any other way."

Juugo let out a resigned sigh. "You know what?"

Suigetsu flashed him a grin.

"You're probably _right."_

* * *

**nine.**

Suigetsu opened the door to his flat, stepping aside to let his friend pass by — Juugo rolled his eyes, but otherwise said nothing, moving easily through the small hallway area into the living room, where he tossed his coat to the ground. Suigetsu took a moment to lock up, but followed after a few seconds, abandoning his coat in a similar manner. Idly, he realized the area still felt of damp. There was still a darker patch on the carpet closest to the bathroom door, but he ignored it, and so did his friend, which was nice of him.

"D'you want a beer or somethin'?" He murmured, but Juugo shook his head.

"I don't like them."

"You're such a _girl_, Juugo," Suigetsu replied, rolling his eyes. "You don't even deserve the title big boy."

"That's good, because I don't want it. It makes me sound fat."

"It's obviously referrin' to your height, idiot. Due to the fact you're so tall and all."

"Now you're just making me feel self-conscious."

"Y'know what? I'm goin' to go get a beer — you can just wallow in your pansy ass-iness," Suigetsu flapped a hand, before turning away and heading towards the kitchen, ignoring Juugo's soft chuckles. His friend could be frustratingly _smart_ when he wanted to; and due to the fact that Suigetsu was more of a rough and tumble sort of guy, they didn't seem as though they should click. Juugo was the guy who'd made them pull over during busy traffic, because some hedgehogs were crossing the road — Suigetsu was the guy who'd continue driving because he didn't give a fuck.

Girls thought Juugo was _sensitive._

Whereas, Suigetsu just thought he was a wuss.

"The TV isn't working, Sui," Juugo called, as Suigetsu began searching through the fridge for a beer.

"Kick it, you moron," he replied. "And don't call me Sui. I sound like a dinner lady."

"That's _Sue_, neanderthal."

"Big words for a big boy."

Juugo didn't even justify that with a response.

Therefore, Suigetsu won.

* * *

"Hey, Suigetsu?" Juugo asked, when they were both finally sat down; him on the couch, slouched forwards ever so slightly as he strained to see the image flickering on the television screen, his friend sprawled across the floor, legs sticking out to make a triangle. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You jus' did."

"Don't be smart, it doesn't suit you."

"Fine," his friend murmured, finally, taking a sip at his beer. "What's your question?"

"I wondered," and Juugo found that his voice was getting quieter, smaller, as he didn't quite know what to say. "I wondered — do you really think I might kill someone? I mean, I thought — I think you might have a point. I'm — I'm more dangerous than I thought I was. Mum was really _crying. _She was _scared. _Of me. I'm her _son. _Since dad went away, I'm supposed to protect her and all that, but I just — I just — I just ended up terrifying her. What if, next time, I _kill _her? By accident? Because I can't control it?"

"Tha's easy," Suigetsu replied, not looking at him. "Firstly, I don't think you could _ever_ kill someone — that was a cheap shot, by me, and I'm willin' to admit that, big boy. You — you're _way _too nice. That was one thing that tart you were dating — y'know, whassherface, the one with the big eyes and bigger tits — had right. You're a nice guy, Juugo. You can't change that. You couldn' kill someone, even if you tried."

There was a brief silent.

"Plus, you're a _pussy."_

"Don't be a dickhead, Sui," Juugo replied, pressing a hand against his forehead, but he couldn't hide the small smile on his face — and his friend was also smiling, "That was a nice heartfelt speech until you got to the end."

"I could say the same about yours, big boy," Suigetsu took another chug of his beer. "'sides, if you're really scared, you can just stick with me. I've got the room, haven' I? Bein' roommates would be fun, I guess. Since we're already pretty good friends, and all, so I guess, you could just move in, if you wanted to. If you were really worried."

"What about _you?"_

"What about me," Suigetsu replied, heaving himself to his feet, raising an eyebrow, "I'm made of _water. _If I want to, I can put my own hand through my stomach, big boy. Here, watch, it's pretty cool."

He took a step backwards, before furrowing his brow, placing his beer on the floor. Then he rolled up his sleeves, before clenching the fist of his right hand; he tugged up his shirt with the other hand, and Juugo rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to make a witty comment, but instantly being shushed. Then, with a look of concentration on his face, Suigetsu began to push his right fist through his stomach. Juugo's eyes widened, and he found himself blinking; it was pretty incredible, actually. One second, there was pale skin and flesh and bone and blood — and then, all of a sudden, Suigetsu's stomach was rippling, a translucent blue, the colour of water, and he plunged his fist into the water. There was a slight splash.

"…see? I told you so."

"I'm not sure whether to be impressed or disgusted. You can't hurt yourself doing that, can you?"

"Oh yeah," Suigetsu nodded, removing his fist as his body returned to the way it normally was, "If my stomach turns back too quickly, my entire fist gets stuck inside, and it fuckin' _kills. _I only did that once, and I was in hospital for a month; I managed to half get my hand out, but my knuckles ended up stuck, and the pain was so bad I couldn' turn back to water again. I had to just pull my hand away. Ended up with a chunk of my stomach missin', bucket loads of blood and stitches."

"That's sick."

"This is where I say somethin' about how your face is the same, but I'm not complainin', right?" Suigetsu chuckled, sitting back down and taking a swig of his beer. "But that would be childish, right?"

"You just put your _hand_ inside your _stomach. _Doesn't that worry you at all?"

"It used to," Suigetsu admitted, before flashing Juugo a grin. "But that's because I thought I was the only one. And then you said weird things were happenin' to you, and I stopped carin', because I wasn't on my own anymore."

"…Suigetsu, that was kind of _sweet."_

* * *

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* * *

**ten.**

Hinata liked watching people.

It was interesting — very, _very_ interesting. She liked seeing the people walk past; liked knowing each of them had a different name, a different face — each of them was a different person. Each of them, every single one of them, had their own feelings, their own problems; they faced their own difficulties, as time passed, and each of them would change. Two friends, walking side by side, could easily become two enemies. A mother and a son, so close at such a young age, could grow bitter and fall apart. People changed, and things made them change. She liked guessing; she liked looking, and making guesses — and although she would never find out if she were right, it was still fun to think.

And the best bit was, they couldn't _see_ her.

She was sat there, on the park bench, not too far away from where a jogger had died only a few days before, watching as the people rushed by. Her gaze was focused on a young woman, with her little daughter. The woman looked tired; she was distracted, a mobile phone in her hand, gazing at the screen absently as if waiting for something. The daughter was skipping and humming and singing. A single mother, Hinata guessed, struggling with the life of a single mother — and if she were struggling, no doubt, she was probably newly accustomed to that life.

She watched as the little girl strode over to the roadside; the little girl swung her arms backwards and forwards, gazing at the cars zipping past. Ahead, the lights switched from green to amber to red. The little girl took a step forwards.

Down the road, a red car picked up speed.

Hinata was too busy watching the little girl to notice.

If she had, things might have been different.

* * *

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* * *

**eleven.**

"From up here, the stars don't seem so high anymore."

It was something Neji had realized long, long ago. As he flew high above the tallest buildings, the wind whipping at his hair, he thought he could move the moon — move the _sun — _if he wanted to. His wings, white as the wings of an angel, pushed at the air around him, and he moved higher and higher and higher, and he felt as though he could walk on clouds. It felt so good. And none of the people below — as small as ants — knew him; they couldn't see him. He was a secret. Even his cousin didn't know.

He sort of wanted to show her.

He smiled.

"No, not high at all."

* * *

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* * *

**twelve.**

When Tenten woke up curled up on the sofa, her arms clasped to her chest and her knees pressed against her elbows, the television still beeping away where Shino had forgotten to switch it off, she knew she was going to have a bad day. She could smell bacon cooking in the kitchen, which meant Shino was up — and if Shino were up, then it was probably late. The guy was practically nocturnal. He only ever woke up when the sun was high in the sky.

Which, therefore, probably meant she was late for work.

"Shit," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes, sitting up and heading for her shared room — Sakura had long since left, "Shit, shit, shit, _shit. _Shino, why didn't you wake me up?"

"You were sleeping," came the response.

"That's why you wake me up, idiot!" Tenten snapped, discarding her pajama top in exchange for a spotty bra and a black button-up blouse; she slipped off her trousers, picked up the white and black polka dot skirt, and slipped it on. Her black converse would be good enough, she decided, and her hair looked neat enough in her opinion. She skidded out of her bedroom, popping her head around the kitchen door, "But don't worry, Shino; I forgive you, just because you're cute. I'll see you tonight. Want me to bring back a coffee?"

"Sure," he nodded, offering her something like a smile. "Have a good day."

"I'll try to," she replied, before turning and heading out the door, pausing only to grab her purse and keys. The Coffee House wasn't too far away and, if she ran, she'd only be an hour or so late; her boss would forgive her, because he liked her too much to let her go; but she wouldn't push her luck. She'd be good. She began to pick up speed, arms pumping backwards and forwards by her side; and she suddenly felt so free. So good and so happy and so free. She ran and she ran and she _ran, _until the world around her was a blur, and she was laughing.

It felt so _good._

She only realized the path below her feet was cracking when she slid to a halt outside the doors of the Coffee House. Her eyes widened in surprise, and her hands slapped against her mouth, and let out a little "oh." The people she'd passed — they were holding their clothes, as though the wind had suddenly tugged at the material; each of them was sharing surprised glances. Tenten realized, then, that the crack ended by her feet, and so she swung open the door and stepped inside.

Tayuya raised an eyebrow. "What's up with you? You look like you're going to puke."

"I might, I think."

"Okay, I was _joking. _What happened?" She crossed the room, that permanent scowl still plastered across her face, and placed a hand gently on Tenten's shoulder. "Something bad?"

"No," Tenten replied, gripping her co-worker's hand and tugging her over to the window, pointing at the long, jagged crack. "_I _did that. I was running, Tayuya, and I was going so fast that the ground just _cracked. _You believe me, right?"

"…are you _insane?"_

Tenten sucked in a breath.

"I think I need a coffee."

* * *

"Is that normal?"

"What — running so fast you end up _cracking_ the ground? You end up actually _breaking pavement?"_

"Yeah."

"No, that's definitely _not _normal."

* * *

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* * *

—and others have greatness _thrust upon_ them

* * *

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* * *

**thirteen.**

Naruto was just walking down the road when it happened. By his side, stood Jiraiya — his god-father, who'd been dead for nearly three years now — and the old man was happy, despite the eleven gaping holes in his stomach, ringed with red. He was whistling. Naruto was trying his best to ignore him; after all, no one else could see Jiraiya, and so if he responded he would just seem insane. In an attempt to stop himself from snapping at the old man, he crossed his hands over his chest and took a glance around.

He _swore_ he saw a girl made of light, sat on the park bench across the road.

He went to cross over, and heard the screech of tires; and, just to the left of him, was a little girl. She had frozen in shock. Her eyes were wide. It was too late for her to even cry. Ahead of her, gathering speed, was a red car — a sleek sport's car — and she let out a piercing shriek, just as her mother screamed. Naruto didn't even think twice. He launched himself forwards.

There was a dull thud.

A body flew through the air.

* * *

The little girl picked herself up, just a few meters from where the car might have hit her. She had bruised knees, a cut above her forehead, and long, thin scratches across her arms. Her tights were ripped. Her dress had a hole in it. One of her bunchies had come undone, and _then_ she began to cry. Her mother raced across the road, arms wide, mumbling the same words over and over and over again, until she finally scooped the child into her arms.

The red car drove away, tires spinning, the driver sobbing.

A blonde boy, with pretty blue eyes, died.

* * *

A few minutes passed.

Someone called an ambulance. The little girl and her mother crossed to the boy who'd died; a complete stranger. He had pretty eyes, the mother thought; they looked happy, even in death. Blood dribbled from between his lips. He was dead. The mother began to whisper those same words again, over and over and over.

He was _dead._

"Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh _God—"_

The dead boy groaned.

The mother let out a scream.

"Oh my God, he's _alive!"_

* * *

Naruto heaved himself into an upright position, spluttering and coughing, as he felt his bones and flesh knit back together again; he moved his head gingerly, until he felt a pop in his neck, and he let out a sigh. His throat hurt; his voice was croaky, as he told the concerned woman in front of him that he was okay. His gaze turned to the little girl. She looked scared. She was still crying.

"It's okay," he told her.

"You were _dead_," the little girl whispered. "Mummy said so. Your heart wasn't beating. You were _dead._"

He smiled.

"I know."

"Are you an angel?"

"Ha, I _wish_," Naruto chuckled, forcing himself to stand up. "Nah, I'm just _unlucky."_

"Unlucky?" The mother scoffed, her voice hysteric, an equally terrified little giggle afterwards. "Don't you mean lucky? Lucky, lucky, _lucky. _Oh my God, you were _dead. _I swear you were. You're so _lucky."_

He grinned.

"I guess I _am_ lucky."

* * *

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**notes**1**: **okay, so these chapters will probably be massive. but they include misfit superheroes, so what can you do? ;)  
**notes**2**: **watching toy story three for the first time. :D  
**notes**3**: **reviews are loved, thank you very much!


	2. can you hear the countdown?

**project: **Lucky 13  
**dedication: **once again, for tricky! & thanks to les for beta'ing this.  
**disclaimer: **I do not own Naruto.

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* * *

I'm not going to lie.

Okay, I _am. _That _was_ a lie. I'm going to lie and lie and lie, and sheepishly back away from reporters, and change my number, and lie to the girl who gave me _her_ number — and I'm going to lie to the pretty news reporter, with the red eyes and the dark hair, until my pants are _burning. _I will be the definition of liar, liar, pants on fire, bets for hire — whatever it was we — you — I — used to chant on the playground, when we were all young and hiding secrets and so _old _for our ages.

It's unfair.

Why did we have to grow up?

I'm not talking Peter Pan, here — I don't _want_ to be a Lost Boy. Staying twelve my entire life sounds like a fucking _nightmare_ — I'd never understand the true meaning of women, and that would _definitely _be missing out. But why did we have to grow up — and so quickly, too? When I was six, I broke my arm — and I didn't even have to go to hospital, because it was as if I'd never even broken my arm to begin with. And when you were six, you never spoke to anyone, even me, and you hated everything and everyone and every tiny little spark of life on this planet, and you wanted to snuff it all out.

And Sakura — she grew up fastest.

That's hardly fair.

I guess we've just got to grow up some more, right?

* * *

I think I'm freaking out.

* * *

I didn't think you'd be _that_ pissed off — and, c'mon, I'm _sorry! _But it's not as if I could just let a little girl die, especially when she had so much to look forward to. Especially when she could do so much. And, you have to admit, it was the right thing to do. Sakura said it was, even though that's the only thing she's said to me since we've seen each other; and I guess I _did _make a mistake, but I couldn't just let her _die. _That would have been unfair.

'sides, _you're _not the one who has to see their ghosts.

* * *

That was uncalled for.

You didn't have to _punch_ me.

* * *

I'm going to stay with Tsunade for a little while, until this entire immortality thing blows over.

Sorry.

* * *

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* * *

(un)lucky 13  
_chapter one:—_

can you hear the countdown?

* * *

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* * *

Ino ran her fingers down her legs, tracing little criss-crossed paths down smooth, pale skin, eyes never leaving the mirror. Upon reaching her feet, and bending over entirely, she placed her foot daintily into her tights, and began to roll them up, up, and _up _her skin, until her right leg was hidden behind shaded-grey material. She did the same again, making sure to run her fingers down her legs slowly, gradually, before pulling up the second leg of the tights.

That was when Sai woke up.

He looked pretty confused, at first; the sort of cute confused Ino liked a lot, where the other person looked all bleary and bemused and ever so slightly scared. Almost immediately, his gaze flickered to her, and he stayed silent — she liked that, as well. In fact, Sai pretty much summed up everything she liked — tall, dark and insanely, ridiculously _pretty _— and she preferred it when he was quiet. Or kissing her. Whichever. With her tights pulled up over her legs, she slipped off her oversized pajama top, turning away from him teasingly as she pulled on a spotted white-and-black bra.

He decided to talk.

"Ino," he said, finally, and, from the movement she could hear, he was no doubt running a hand through his hair, a habit he'd picked up from who knew where, "Did we sleep together last night?"

She didn't reply, choosing instead to pick up the little green dress off her desk and turn to Sai, holding it up in front of her and flashing a brilliant smile. "What do you think," she asked, before switching the dress for a two-piece, with a black skirt and a spotted black-and-white halter neck upper half. She slipped the second outfit on, before striking a little pose, swishing and swirling and smiling and _flirting. _

Sai grunted.

For a few seconds, Ino's expression turned carefully blank, and she sighed, taking a steady step forwards, reaching up with one hand to let her hair loose — blonde strands fell across her forehead, and she swept them to the side, in a fringe, before stepping again. One, two. One, two. A little pause, a little smile, and then she was bending down, hands strategically placed on either side of his body, slipping easily onto the bed so that she was straddling him. He didn't seem unnerved at all — typical Sai. She let out another small sigh, before dipping forwards, her lips inches away from his, painted red, red, crimson _red._

"How about a good morning _kiss?"_

And so she kissed him.

* * *

Within another few seconds, her clothes were lying on the floor, and Sai didn't really care whether they'd slept together last night, because they were certainly doing something _now _— and even if he knew Ino would just abandon him, when the next pretty thing came walking along. He'd seen the List. He never told her, though.

He didn't know why.

(But he might have sort of loved her.)

* * *

Ino was glad she'd decided to keep him. He was pretty, he was quiet and he didn't ask questions; he didn't know there were questions which had to be asked, but he didn't ask them nonetheless, and that was all that counted. She adored him, when she thought about it; when she looked at her list; and she wouldn't have changed him, not for anyone. She adored him. He was pretty.

But she didn't _love_ him.

She was _beautiful._

Too beautiful to be tied down to anyone — am I right, or am I right? No, she was beautiful and he was pretty, and the two matched, but they weren't perfect. It was like trying to force jigsaw pieces together. They matched, when you pressed hard enough, but they just weren't perfect. You knew it wasn't the right one, even if you tried to kid yourself, because you just wanted the jigsaw to be solved and done and _over. _Ino and Sai were sort of like that.

A jigsaw that matched, but didn't quite fit.

Sort of summed up her life, really.

She swung her legs out of bed, brushing her fingers along his cheek before searching absently for her dressing gown; she'd have a shower and get dressed later, otherwise she'd feel dirty for the rest of the day, and that was just wrong. She flashed him a small smile, pausing with a hand on her hip. "I'm going to make breakfast. Coffee?"

"Sure," he replied, and she watched absently as he sat up, running a hand through his hair again, pale skin gleaming with sweat, and she bit her lip, because Sai was pretty. She wanted to kiss him again, because she liked the control; and she wanted him to hold her, purely because _she_ wanted him to. He never remembered, when she kissed him; he'd just touched her a few moments ago, but she could see his expression turning confused again, see the question lingering on his lips — a question she'd heard time and time again, to the point where she'd gotten used to it, because it was a normality.

She left before he had the chance to ask.

* * *

Her kitchen was a mess.

Wrinkling her nose, Ino tried to remember _why_ it was a mess — why there was chocolate on the sideboards and milk spilt across the floor, and why the fridge was hanging open — and decided she didn't want to know. Instead, she stepped over a cracked egg, deciding she'd ignore the fridge, as anything in it was bound to be warm by now, and reached for the eggs. She put some oil in a frying pan, switched on the gas, and cracked the two eggs into the pan, watching as they began to sizzle and crackle, ever so quietly. Turning away, she scooped the remote control off the floor and turned to the mini-TV balanced on the fridge, switching it on and waiting patiently for the picture to crackle into view.

A news reporter, with dark hair and startling eyes, was stood in front of a crowded street, gesturing frantically at a mother and her child; Ino scowled, waiting for the audio to stop crackling, eyes glued to the screen — because, for some reason, it felt _important. _Whatever was showing, she felt as though she should pay attention to it.

"…witnesses say that Uzumaki Naruto, aged seventeen years, _died_, on this very street; and, yet, there he is," the reporter gestured towards the blonde boy, and the camera zoomed in; it was at this moment that Ino realized his top was bloody, and his hair was disheveled, and he looked ever so awkward, "Standing directly in front of us, alive and _well. _Despite the fact that he was thrown more than fifteen meters down the road, he appears to have no real injuries; no broken bones, no cuts, no bruises; but the blood on his shirt would state otherwise."

The screen cut across to Naruto, a microphone thrust in front of his face, and he blinked.

"Sir, can you explain to us what happened here, today?" The reporter asked.

"Hey, your guess is as good as mine," Naruto replied, all blue eyes, blonde hair and a sheepish grin, "Can I go now?"

"You save a girl's _life."_

"I know."

"You _died."_

"I kno— wait, _that_ might be exaggerating it a bit—"

"—can you explain how it is you managed to, for lack of better words, come back to life? How it is you managed to cheat death? How is it that this little girl walked away with scrapes and bruises and, yet, despite being thrown into the air by a speeding car, _you_ are unharmed?" The reporter continued, as if Naruto had never even spoken, and the blonde frowned.

"I guess, when you put it that way, it _does_ seem a little odd," and then he smiled, raising his hands in surrender. "But I _really_ have to go now. I've got to visit my, uh, grandmother, and she's pretty sick, so I guess I should just be leaving now—"

"—one last question!"

Naruto nodded.

The reporter sucked in a breath.

The tension rose.

"Are you a _superhero?"_

_

* * *

_

"What're you watching?"

Ino blinked, turning around, her arms folded across her chest; her expression softened as her eyes were met with a bare chest and a slightly bemused expression. Sai crossed his arms, taking a few steps forwards, eyes glued to the television; and she shrugged a shoulder, turning the volume down slightly, so that she could talk over the news and still be heard.

"Apparently, this guy managed to save a little girl from being hit by a car," she said, watching as the reporter continued talking, "Thing is, he's supposed to be dead, since the car knocked him through the air, going at, like, sixty or something. Some asshole recorded the entire thing on their mobile. They're going to play it again, in a second."

"Huh," Sai grunted, moving forwards to search through her cupboards; he pulled out a loaf of bread, picked up a slice, and then placed it in the toaster, turning back to face the television. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, it is," Ino replied.

Her brow furrowed and she curled a lip in distaste.

"The reporter called him a _superhero. _He saves a kid and doesn't die, and she calls him a _superhero_."

Sai nodded, "Tough break, huh?"

"Are you _kidding?"_ Ino rolled her eyes, jabbing a finger at the television screen — on it, the blonde boy was catapulting backwards, having been hit by the red car; the person recording let out a shout of horror, and then the screen blurred, as they ran closer to the fallen boy. The image cut back, then, to Naruto, standing alive and well, looking a little bit overwhelmed. "That guy's going to be the hottest thing since sliced bread. I mean, he's already pretty cute, without the entire superhero thing he's got going on."

Her lips curled into a perfect smile.

"He's going on my list, for _sure."_

_

* * *

_

_._

_._

_._

_

* * *

_

Gaara was watching a bird die, when he heard the news.

Well, he hadn't gone out of his way to find and watch a bird die; his siblings were arguing, again, about things he didn't understand. Money. The flat. No, not understanding — that wasn't quite the right way to put it. He _did_ understand, he just chose not to care. And he hated it when his sister got angry, because she got _too_ angry, and she'd cry angry tears. And he hated it when his brother got angry, because he got _too_ angry, and he'd throw stuff and then stay out 'til past three in the morning. And then the anger would start all over again.

And he'd get angry.

No, it was better to sit out of all that drama; so, ever so quietly, he'd stood up, moved away from the sofa, and left the flat. He'd walked until he came to the old park he used to play at, where he used to sit in the sandpit on his own; he'd sat down on the swing, tucked his hands in his pockets, and kicked backwards and forwards. The swing moved ever so slightly, and he stopped kicking, waiting until he swung into stillness again. He repeated the process over and over, until he was thinking of nothing, and he was swinging so high that he felt he could touch the sky. It was the little things he liked.

That was when he spotted the bird.

It was a tiny thing, he thought. So small, that he could cup it in his hands, if he wanted to. It was hopping — slowly, carefully — across the grass, and he just watched it, for a little while. He didn't notice the cat stalking it, nor its injured wing; blood and all. No, he only saw a little bird, hopping across the grass; and that was when the cat leapt forwards, slashing at it with its claws, and Gaara's heart turned blank.

That pretty much summed it all up.

Beside him, a boy a few years older than him was showing something to a friend, "And did you hear? He was fucking _dead_, man — there was a doctor and everything, and they were like, 'fuck it, this dude is dead', and then, all of a sudden, he just gets up. Groaning like a fucking _zombie. _He just gets up."

"What, so he wasn't dead?"

"Nah, he was definitely dead. He just… woke up, I guess. Fucking _weird. _Like a superhero, or some shit."

"What a _freak_," and they laughed together, as they walked away.

And Gaara watched as the cat slashed at the bird's throat, and the bird let out a sort of squawk, before attempting to flap a wing — the other being too bloody and mangled to properly move. He watched as the cat pounced fully upon the bird, and watched the fluttering wings and the gradually quieting squawks of pain. He watched, and watched, and wondered if there really were superheroes, or if they were just freaks (_like him_), and weirdoes, but not the good kind.

He decided it was probably the latter.

Still, this immortal guy sounded interesting — well, more interesting than watching a bird die.

Gaara slipped off the swing, pushed his hands in his pockets, and made his way out of the park.

* * *

At first, he was walking towards his flat; aimlessly, kicking stones beneath his feet, hands tucked in his pockets, but he was still walking in that general direction. People looked at him, as well; nothing big — not flat out staring. Just sneaking sideways glances, as they walked past, holding shopping bags or small children or whatever. But they were still looking, and that was all that mattered. He didn't even have to do anything, and they still looked.

"Because bright red hair was the equivalent of a target sign, _moron."_

That's what Kankuro had said, anyway, and it seemed like it was true; besides, his brother would know, because he knew things, and he was Weird. Capital-letter weird, which was generally a Bad Weird, not a good weird. Hell, he walked around with pink patterns painted across his face, because it expressed his "inner voice" — he was _definitely _Weird.

But, unlike Gaara, he'd played it off. Used it to help himself. Sure, he was Weird, but he could use that and change it; and instead of being Weird, he was _unique_. He'd crossed the fine line, which felt more like a chasm to Gaara, and people spoke to him; of course, they still _looked_ at Kankuro, just like how they were looking at Gaara, but it was a different look. And he couldn't explain it, but he sort of wanted people to look at _him_ like that.

He was so busy thinking of looks and the like, that he didn't realize he'd bumped into somebody until he was lying sprawled across the ground, body stinging in pain. He didn't wait for long before standing up — he was, after all, attracting more looks — and then he stuck his hand out in front of him, where the person had fallen, speaking one word.

"Sorry—"

And then Gaara froze.

Because there was no one there.

(And if there was one way to get people to look at you in a way that just screamed Weird, just try talking to thin air.)

_

* * *

_

Hinata sat as still as she could, heart pattering, palms of her hands pressed against the pavement as she gazed up at the stranger. He was frowning, arm still outstretched, confusion etched across his features; and Hinata felt that urge again, to reach out and _touch_ him — to see him blink and stutter and yelp in fear, because that's what they always did. To whisper in his ear. To do something — _anything_ — to make her presence known.

Instead, she sat there, as still as a statue, and wished he'd walk away.

His eyes narrowed further and he moved forwards; and she didn't move backwards — not even as his fingers crept forwards and brushed against her cheek. Not even as his eyes widened in surprise, and his mouth dropped open, and his hand moved downwards, gingerly pressing against her shoulder. It was only when he went to say something that she pushed herself to her feet and bit her lip. It was only then that she realized she was _invisible_ and that he shouldn't ever know that.

It shouldn't be happening.

* * *

"Wait—"

He heard someone shift about; heard the rustle of clothes; and found his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing, as he tried to make sense of what was happening. Before he could do so, however, someone — some_thing_ — bumped into him, and he staggered backwards. He heard footsteps walk away; and so he turned, tilting his head in curiosity and disbelief, and wondered.

Then he rubbed his eyes.

"—I think I need some more sleep," he murmured, shaking his head, pushing his hands back in his pockets, and deciding he _would_ head back to the flat.

After all, he was imagining invisible people.

Hell, he was _talking_ to them.

_That_ was Weird.

* * *

Hinata hugged her arms to her sides, making sure to keep her head down, but keep light on her feet, so as to avoid bumping into anyone again, as she continued walking down the street. She couldn't help but, after a moment, chance a glance over her shoulder; but the red-headed boy had vanished almost entirely, and she could only just see his frame disappearing into the distance. She bit her lip, eyes returning to the pavement ahead of her, just in time for her to duck around an elderly woman; she didn't want to bump into anyone again.

No, the sooner she returned home, the better.

There, she was _always_ invisible, both metaphorically and literally. She could walk into a crowded room, without using her power — as plain and obvious to the eye as the sun — but no one would notice her. Likewise, she could change whenever she wanted to, and, even if she did it right in front of one of them — just _vanished_ — her family would never notice. They didn't notice her, because they didn't _need_ to notice her, and that was that. But it was okay — it didn't hurt as much as it used to; and, besides, she enjoyed _watching._

Watching, when no one was looking.

Looking, when no one was watching.

It reminded her of her childhood — pretending to be a super spy, or a secret agent, and creeping around the garden with her collar pulled up and her mother's Gucci sunglasses. It reminded her of sunshine smiles, and being a little girl, with her scabby knees and elbows — not that she ever _had_ scabby knees and elbows, of course — and she liked that. She liked being a secret. A whisper in the wind. Hush, hush — because no one could _see _her.

It was _her_ big secret.

* * *

Gaara ran his fingers through his hair, briefly, before stepping into his flat, feeling himself deflate almost instantly — his brother and sister were still at it. Temari was sat at the table, her entire body tensed and coiled, as if ready to strike out — she was leaning forwards slightly, one finger pointing, her face that of grim determination, as she spoke; and her voice was controlled, the anger in it perfectly measured and calculated in a manner which meant she best showed her annoyance. His brother, however, was all wild gestures, all tumbling movements, no control, no _nothing_; he ranted and raged, face twisted in fury, and he didn't bother controlling it at all.

That's why, secretly, Gaara preferred Kankuro — because the other was so easy to read, so predictable, it was laughable.

He moved into the room, ducking past his brother — who was gesturing violent, waving his arms like a windmill — and moved into the kitchen. His mind strayed back, for a moment, to the invisible person, but his thoughts didn't linger on the matter for too long; no, his gaze turned to the little vial of sand, kept on the kitchen counter, shaped like an egg timer. Previously, it had been in his bedroom, but Temari had found it and confiscated it, in the hope he'd explain what it was for.

His fingers reached out for it.

For a moment, it was in his hands — his big secret — and he felt the power roar inside of him. He saw the sand seem to jump in the vial, moving as one body — as one _creature_ — beneath his command; and it felt _good. _He wanted — no, he _longed_ — to let loose; to use the sand, and manipulate it, because he wanted to, and, some day, he might _need_ to. Absently, his thoughts returned to the immortal boy, the one the boys at the park had been talking about, and he wondered if there were others, maybe, like him, who felt this feeling — this _need. _And, as he thought those thoughts, he decided he couldn't control it for any longer.

He tipped the sand into the palm of his hand; but, before he even thought it, the sand began to dance at his fingertips, spiraling and shimmering in the light, each grain sparkling like a jewel. He cupped his other hand around it, his expression clear, peaceful, as he began to jerk his fingers backwards and forwards, controlling the sand like a puppet; it formed shapes and figures — a person, sprawled across the floor; the sun, bouncing briefly off the ceiling, grains showering to the tiled floor; a boat, a plane, a bike—

"What are you _doing?"_

Gaara blinked.

The sand fell to the floor.

There, at the doorway, stood Kankuro, an eyebrow arched in confusion, disbelief etched across his face as he stared at his brother. "What the hell was that?"

"Nothing," he replied, pushing past his brother, before the other could open his mouth again — he felt Temari's eyes on the back of his head, as he moved past her and along the corridor, ducking into his shared bedroom, and then climbing out of the window, landing easily on the fire escape. He didn't look back.

In the kitchen, the sand twitched and jerked, before falling completely still, and Kankuro moved to sweep it up, still frowning, still uncertain of what he'd seen. And, at the table, Temari told herself she'd known all along that her baby brother was hiding something, and that, as soon as he returned, she'd try and make everything better. She'd be the big sister she knew she could be. And, halfway down the road, Gaara kicked a stone across the pavement, face carefully, _dangerously_ blank.

His big secret was out.

* * *

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* * *

By default, Tenten didn't like video games involving superheroes.

She was a cut-and-slash-and-_kill _sort of girl. Give her a couple of zombies, and she was away. Give her flesh-eating souls and empty-eyed demons, and she'd slice them down with an oversized sword, because she was a hired hitman, and that was what her profession had started doing, since the resurrection of the Antichrist. But, if you gave her bright red pants, blue tights, a snazzy cape and a silly logo, she'd just stare, because _seriously?_

Almost by default again, Tenten didn't even particularly like superheroes. They held no real appeal to her; even the dirty, gritty ones, with the dark past and the darker future, was too _perfect _for her. She wasn't one of those people who believed your average, everyday person could become a superhero, either; they could become a _hero_, but not a superhero. They could do something really good, really brilliant — like save a girl from getting hit by a flashy red sports car, for example — but that didn't make them a superhero.

Grudgingly, she admitted to Shino, eyes still glued on the television, getting hit by a car, _dying_ and then _getting back up _might make them a superhero.

(Even then, she didn't want to say it.)

Besides, his entire immortality thing had totally beaten her running-so-fast-that-she-broke-the-_pavement_ thing. Power. Whatever it was. And she was loathed to tell Shino, now, especially after sounding so cynical about it all — and the moment the news had flickered onto the television, and Naruto's grinning face had appeared, Sakura had let out a little squeaking sound, picked up her jacket and raced out the house. Neither Shino nor Tenten said anything about it; the pink-haired girl _constantly_ did that. They knew she had friends, somewhere, but they just didn't know _who._

She never told them who called her at midnight, and made her smile like a giddy schoolgirl — and who, just as easily, could reduce her to trembling, a mess, tears — _whatever. _It didn't concern them, even if it _did_ infuriate Tenten.

What possibly _did_ concern her, however, was the blue-eyed boy on the screen in front of her.

After all, he didn't seem that surprised; not even when the reporter had announced, with a grand sweeping gesture, that Naruto had _died_. He'd looked a bit embarrassed about it all. He'd smiled a little sheepish smile, and then asked if he could go, and he hadn't seemed disturbed or scared or confused. He'd looked as if it were all a bit too much, considering all he'd done; and Tenten couldn't believe a boy with such an open smile could be so _mysterious._

It was a little bit attractive, actually.

"Hey, Tenten," Shino said, finally, pushing his shades up his nose and then slouching in his seat; a game controller perched on his lap, his trench coat zipped right up, Shino was probably the definition of 'all things a bit weird', at that moment. And he was wearing shades indoors. "Do you think it's true that he died? He could have just simply been knocked unconscious. Do you think he really—"

"—yeah, I do."

"But that wouldn't make any _sense."_

"I know the feeling, trust me," Tenten replied, and decided this was the time — this was the right moment. "I know it's not as cool as, well, _immortality, _but I broke a pavement today. I was running, and then I started to get faster, and the pavement just _broke."_

Shino looked incredulous, even behind his sunglasses.

"I can _show_ you."

* * *

"You're trying to tell me that _you_ did this," Shino said, finally, as Tenten hugged her arms to her body, freezing cold and wondering why they weren't moving more, "That _you_ made these cracks, because _you_ were running."

She nodded.

His gaze traveled back along the pavement, following the jagged crack up the street — it looked more as though there'd been an earthquake, and the ground had shifted apart. If she _had_ made those marks, he noted, eyebrows shooting upwards, she would have had to have been running much faster than Shino could ever have dreamed. She'd have to have been running — he paused, attempting to do the calculations in his head, before letting out a little sigh.

She'd have to have been running _really fast._

"This is impossible," he stated blankly, before turning to look at her — all smiles and bright eyes and a little sheepish look, as if she hadn't done something completely amazing and incredible and a little bit _scary_, "You're an impossible girl."

"Aren't all girls impossible?"

"As true as that might be, you happen to be the most impossible of them all," he countered, before pausing. "And _incredible. _Pretty incredible, actually."

Tenten looked embarrassed.

"Can we go home, now?"

"On one condition," Shino replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "You _run."_

* * *

It was impressive, he was willing to admit that; but it wasn't _speed. _At least, he didn't think so; she didn't move her legs quick enough, he thought, for it to be super-human speed. He made sure to watch carefully, eyes narrow behind his sunglasses, and he was pretty much sure of that; her legs weren't a blur of black-and-white, and she didn't move so quickly that his eyes couldn't keep up. Oh, she moved fast, that was true.

That was _definitely_ true.

But she left little craters when her feet touched the ground, and her strides were incredible. He took a step forwards, frowning ever so slightly, moving over towards one of the craters; it was wide, almost as large as her arm-span, and it was deep; when he stepped down into it, he found that the ground reached his calf. He couldn't bring himself to believe, however, that she was doing this purely because she was so _fast_; because that didn't make sense, not in his mind.

He thought back to his comics.

This — these craters — this was more the Hulk, than the Flash.

Absently, Shino wondered whether he could convince Tenten to punch a wall; and whether that would mean bringing down the entire _building_, as well. It probably wasn't worth it, he thought; after all, there was every chance he'd just made a mistake; he beckoned for her to move over to him, and she did so, face flush with excitement. There was a moment of silence, as he peered at her — then he opened his mouth, ready to speak. Tenten cut across him before he could even say a thing, squinting at something past his shoulder.

"Is he _flying?"_

Shino rolled his eyes, "You say that like it's a _weird_ thing."

Tenten elbowed him, smiling despite herself. "I'm going to go and check it out. Meet you back at home?"

"I'll warm the sofa up for you."

"You do that, Shino."

And, with a wink and a leap, Tenten jumped entirely up into the air, disappearing out of sight, before landing a distance away. Shino watched her go, chuckling softly before pressing his hands into his pockets and walking back in the general direction of the flat. It was weird, really. All these weird things. Tenten turning out to be more impossible than he'd ever thought. In fact, her just being so _weird._

But weird was good.

It was _exciting._

And things would never be the same again.

* * *

.

.

.

* * *

Colourful.

It was all so _beautiful._

Reds and greens, oranges and yellows — and bright, bright, _bright_ blues. Each colour sparkled like a jewel, shimmering and spiraling and _dancing _before her very eyes. There were splashes of crimson and scarlet; splotches of violet and indigo and _peach_, and it all looked so wonderful. Like a circus of colours — like a rainbow, painted high across the sky, and—

She took a step forwards, laughter bubbling up from between her lips, as she crept through the sleeping mind of her older brother. He'd always had a pretty, pretty mind, although he hid it behind his dark eyes and heavy glares and _scowls. _She'd always known it. She'd always wanted to _explore_ it.

See how he ticked.

Pull him apart.

Karin let herself laugh, then, and the noise echoed all through his mind, because it was all so beautiful and wonderful and—

—and only _she _could see it.

She felt her brother stir — his entire conscious seemed to rumble, like thunder, and she felt the ground below her feet shake. She folded her arms across her chest, scowling ever so slightly, before taking a few steps forward, moving towards a black door — black as ink, with a little white sign on it; it had always been there, resting in her brother's mind. She'd always begin to walk towards it — and she'd break out into a _run_ — but it would never get any closer. She couldn't see what the little painted white bit was, or meant, either; she was too far away. Sometimes, she thought it was a name — other times, a symbol.

A skull.

She wanted to _open _it — even if it _was _Pandora's Box.

Because it was a Secret, and, when you can see into the mind itself, there _are _no secrets.

At least, not for Karin.

* * *

It was a restless dream.

Black and white.

A figure, running towards him, an arm outstretched; hauling him to his feet, but he was only small, and he was covered in _blood. _It clung to his face, his cheeks, his hair, his clothes, and it _stank _something terrible. He couldn't move, not at first; he was being dragged along, but his feet didn't want to move, and oh God, oh God, oh Go—

The ground was littered with bodies.

—d, oh God, oh God; the person holding his arm, gripping his wrist so tightly he felt it might shatter, turned and looked over his shoulder, with red, shining eyes. Eyes like a dragon, his six-year old mind screamed; eyes like a _monster. _Like the thing under the bed. Like the creature in the wardrobe. Like the demon that tap-tap-taps against the window, in the dead of night. Eyes like a _monster._

He let out a scream.

Six-years old morphed into twenty-years old.

His eyes opened, and he was still screaming, because he still saw _red_; and that monster, with the red, shining eyes — that was _him, _now, and oh God, oh God, oh God—

"Wake _up_, you _idiot!"_

Someone slapped him.

And the illusion vanished.

* * *

Karin hadn't reached the door; it had flung itself open, and black threads of _nothing_ had spilled out, creeping and crawling towards her; and she'd turned and ran the opposite way because she'd known, deep in her heart, that it was dangerous. But, likewise, she was scared of what would happen if she let those threads entirely cover his mind — would her brother disappear into the darkness, vanishing like a ghost? And how could she save him, either way?

Well, whatever.

If she _was_ going to do something, she wouldn't be able to do it hidden in his mind, scurrying about like a mouse. She skidded to a halt, squeezed her eyes shut, and waited for the familiar rush — the sucking, popping feeling, as she was pulled from his mind, and as she returned to her own. Her eyes flickered open, and she was lying in her bedroom, sprawled across her bed in her oversized pajama shirt. Immediately, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up.

She heard a familiar low moaning, coming from her brother's room, and she began to pick up speed. In her mind, she saw the door. The darkness. The black. She stepped into his bedroom, spotting him thrashing and turning on the bed, his moans turning into screams of pain and raw terror; and, without a second thought, she lifted her hand and slapped — a single, solid slap, which sort of dissolved into a punch midway through.

"Wake _up_, you _idiot!"_

He was panting heavily, clutching the bedsheet below him, chest rising and falling; his hair fell into his eyes and, for a second there, Karin _swore_ she saw spiraling red in the depths of those eyes. But she blinked, and it was gone, along with any doubt she might have had. She placed a hand on his forehead, frowning at the high temperature, and then let out a rattled sigh.

"Christ, Itachi — wake me up, why don't you."

He smiled shakily, and her expression of annoyance (and fright, although she tried not to show the other part) dissolved entirely. "Sorry, Karin," he said, and her face turned gentle.

"I was getting up already, so don't worry."

"Sorry," he repeated, raking a hand through his hair.

"Idiot — that was my way of saying don't worry about it!" Karin snapped, reaching out and ruffling her brother's (immaculate, even despite his tossing and turning) hair, before grinning.

Itachi returned her smile, with a casual shrug.

"I'm going to make breakfast," she said, but he placed a hand on her shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

"If you make breakfast, we'll dine on burnt toast and runny eggs. I'll do it. You go and shower, or something. Just give me a second to feel more awake."

Karin nodded, making her way towards the doorway. She paused, just for a second, glancing back at her brother; she didn't really understand him, although she tried to. He was sat on the bed, hands clasped loosely in his lap, gazing down at his palms; it was something she saw him doing a lot. He'd look at his hands, as if he saw something she didn't; and no amount of mind-hopping ever showed her what he saw — whether it was his past he saw, or the brother he said they'd lost, when she was younger. Absently, she thought Shikamaru might now — he knew a lot of things — but then Itachi's gaze moved to her, and she saw that his eyes were distracted. Pained.

She bit her lip.

"You can talk to me, you know."

With that, she turned and left.

* * *

Itachi stayed sat on the bed, for a moment, still staring at the spot where his sister had stood, and he wondered if he was causing her pain. He could be, for all he knew — he was never really around, except in the early mornings, and late, late at night. He glanced absently at the alarm clock on his bedside table, frowning slightly; if he continued at this rate, he would be late. He changed quickly, easily, into a suit — crisp white shirt and tailored black trousers contrasting wonderfully with his pale skin and his disheveled features — before taking the stairs two at a time, moving into the kitchen. He fixed Karin breakfast, not bothering with anything for himself, leaving it sat upon the table with a note beside it. He thought his messy, scrawled handwriting looked awfully lonely. So did his sister's eyes.

He banished the thought from his mind, as he left the house.

He walked slowly, at first, hands in his pockets, ducking left and right around different corners, weaving aimlessly with no real purpose; he knew his destination, but he didn't quite want to get there, not yet. No, he took another left, and then another, carried straight on, and then began to slow down, expression perfectly blank as he gazed at the abandoned shop opposite him. Boards had been nailed across a window — another had a hole punched straight through it — and a padlock hung over the door. He crossed over and walked down the alleyway beside it, until he came to concrete stairs, which led down to a smaller door, below the pavement.

He knocked once.

The door swung open.

Blonde hair and blue eyes peered back at him, before the person's lips split into a wild grin, and a hand clapped across his back, "You're _late. _If you'd been any later, Sasori might have had a heart attack, yeah."

"Hn."

"Not that I really care, of course," Deidara continued, slinging one arm casually around the other's shoulder, pretending he actually gave a shit, despite the fact that both of them knew he _loathed_ Itachi, "But who'd have wanted to see him maim your pretty face, right? Not me, yeah. I prefer your face un-maimed. Or, if anyone was going to do the maiming, it would have to be me, okay?"

"Shut up."

"Eesh, for such a pretty person, you sure are _grumpy_," the blonde winced, shifting his arm away, before grinning again. "You'd make _lovely _art."

Itachi resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You're worse than Orochimaru."

"Come on, yeah! Give a guy a break."

"I'm not going to let you blow me up, if that's what you want," he replied, moving towards the room at the far end of the corridor, where he was certain his partner would be — Deidara stayed where he was, arms crossed over his chest, grumbling curses beneath his breath, as he watched the Uchiha disappear, with one final call. "And stop calling me _pretty."_

He plastered a big, huge, _mad_ smile across his face, blue eyes sparkling.

"What can I say, yeah? Pretty people make the _best _art."

Itachi simply rolled his eyes, ignoring the blonde as he stepped into the room; the area was smoky, the smell of cigarettes drifting throughout the room. A single, flickering television stood in one corner, a game's console of some sort plugged into it, despite the fact that the screen was broken, and glass littered the floor; there was a desk in the other corner, a curious man sat behind it. His skin was a light shade of blue, his hair a darker shade, and his teeth shone in the dim light, each one of them pointed and terribly, incredibly sharp. Behind him was a tank.

The shark-man was soaking wet.

"Hey, 'tachi," the figure spoke, flashing a grin and waving a hand. "Wan' a swim, or did ya do your hair all pretty this mornin' or somethin', so you can't?"

Itachi pinched the bridge of his nose.

"No, Kisame — the reason I don't want to swim is because the last time I went swimming with you, you savagely attacked a small child in a rubber dingy."

Kisame chuckled. "Yeah, good times, right?"

He didn't dignify that with a response.

"Did ya see the news, anyway?" Kisame said, finally, after a brief period of silence — Itachi shook his head, and Kisame gestured towards a newspaper, spraying droplets of water across the folded paper as he did so. The Uchiha crossed the room, picking it up and unfolding it, eyes narrowing at the news he saw; a familiar face was plastered across the front cover, underneath the bold title of "Zombie Boy Walks the Streets!", and Itachi felt his frown worsen.

His partner looked only mildly worried. "Did anyone tell ya frownin' will give ya early wrinkles?"

"What are we doing about this?" Itachi said, ignoring the other completely.

Kisame's grin turned dangerous.

"The same thing the Akatsuki always does, of course — we're gonna _steal_ it."

* * *

.

.

.

* * *

He loved the sky.

The stars — the moon — Konoha City at night.

He loved it _all._

Arms outstretched, palms turned to the heavens, eyes wide, expression blank; he felt at _peace. _The wind whipped at his hair, tugged at his clothes, pulled at him, willing for his wings to burn, for him to fall, fall, _fall_ — but oh, how the caged bird enjoyed his moments, his periods, of beautiful, fleeting _freedom. _It was wonderful, this emptiness — and emptiness he hadn't felt before, and didn't understand, but it was brilliant nonetheless.

But it was lonely.

It was oh so lonely, up there in the darkness, so high where no one could even begin to reach—

* * *

—Tenten's fingers closed around the boy's wrist, and she flashed him a grin.

"Ha! I _told_ him you were flying!"

He blinked.

"Who're you—"

But before she could answer, they began to fall.

* * *

"_Fly, _you idiot!"

"I can't," Neji scowled, attempting to pry the stranger's fingers from his wrist, wondering vaguely how she'd gotten up there in the first place, with no wings, no magical powers — no _flight. _"You're too heavy. Let go."

"Flap those wings, Bird Boy!"

"Let _go!"_

"_You_ let go!"

"What does that even mean?"

* * *

When they crashed into the tree, Tenten was forced to go back on her word; her reflexes meant that she ended up snatching her hand away from his wrist, instead moving her palms up to cover her face, curling awkwardly forwards into a sort of ball. Not that it really mattered, though. As soon as she'd pulled her hand away, his had snatched back at her again, snagging at her wrist, holding onto her, and she wasn't quite sure why; after all, it was her fault they'd crashed into a tree. Branches scratched her skin and, for a second, she was forced to think of other things; when they finally stopped falling, she let her gaze move to him again, curious.

He was pretty.

Pale skin and dark hair, which fell across his face, cut loose from the ponytail it'd been pulled into; it fell into his eyes, which shone white like the stars, lonely as the moon; tinged ever so slightly with lilac. His shirt had ripped from the fall, but it had been crisp and neat before, and he'd been wearing a suit. He was ever so handsome, with aristocratic features and a gentle, sloping nose; beautiful, she thought. Pretty as could be. She sort of wanted to touch him.

It was a shame he was glaring at her.

There was a brief, awkward silence, in which she noticed that his wings were caught in the branches above him. He noticed her looking and his scowl merely intensified; she smiled and waggled her fingers sheepishly, adjusting herself so that instead of being ensnared by the branches, she was in fact perched upon a particularly thick branch.

He furrowed his brow.

"Do you know what I think?"

"That we should elope?"

His expression turned confused.

"…what?"

"Nothing," Tenten replied, waving a hand. "Continue."

"Fine," the boy snapped, managing to shake away his confusion in favour for a familiar scowl, "As I was saying, you need to climb over and help untangle me. After all, it was _your_ fault we fell in the first place." His expression turned curious, and he crossed his arms over his chest, dangling fully from his wings — which _had_ to hurt, Tenten thought. "How did you even get up there to begin with, anyway?"

"I jumped!"

She gestured wildly behind her, in the general direction of the street; his gaze followed her finger, until his eyes were scanning the pavement, searching for anything to prove her right. Apparently, the series of mini-craters she'd left behind her, as she'd jumped down the street, was enough proof, and his eyes widened in surprise, before his gaze flickered back to her. He looked vaguely interested. He uncrossed his arms, pressing them against the branches beside him, helping himself stay steady. Then he nodded at her, raising an eyebrow. "You can help me anytime soon, you know."

"Sorry," she said, before wriggling along the branch, attempting to move closer to him; she reached out, gingerly brushing a finger against his wings — and they were so _soft! _So wonderful! She noticed him staring up at her and felt herself flush, despite the fact that she hadn't even been doing anything worth blushing about. "Ah, your name?"

He blinked.

Tenten rolled her eyes, "I'm Tenten. I have an obsession with pointy things, I can kick any guy's ass on any games console, and, when in the comfort of my own home, I wear orange goggles. Hi, what's your name?"

The stranger raised an eyebrow.

"…Neji. I can fly. And I noticed that challenge in your little speech; bet _I _could kick your ass at any games console."

Tenten grinned.

"I can see this is going to be the start of a beautiful relationship!"

* * *

.

.

.

* * *

Sasuke shoved his hands into his pockets, walking aimlessly down the street, his mind on other things. There was rarely a time when he was so distracted; when he couldn't really see the people around him, to the point where they just became a blur of swirling, changing colours; but it was nice. The noise of Konoha City just bustled into nothing — into a steady, static silence, which hung heavily in the air, and made his head buzz with brilliant, bright ideas. It made him hurt.

It made him _hurt. _

But it was good — it was fine. It was better than being back at the flat, with Naruto, who had been hounded constantly be paparazzi for almost three days flat; it was better than waking up, opening the curtains to your bedroom window, and finding a few minutes later that your naked upper-torso is spread all over fifteen different newspapers, underneath the headline "Invincible Boy Wakes Up Next to Pretty Boy". And that wasn't really a headline you could miss.

In fact, when he confronted Naruto about it, saying he'd have to leave or do an interview or _something_, the blonde had merely laughed, taking the newspaper and saying, "Yeah, I don't get where they're coming from, either, Sasuke. You're not _that_ pretty."

At which point, Sasuke had punched his best friend in the face.

And then left.

Which was, in his opinion, the best way of solving any argument.

Which was why, when he felt the hand slip into his pocket, casually, ever so gently, and reach for his wallet, he turned pretty easily and punched the pickpocket in the face.

* * *

Kiba fell backwards, dazed, his hand instantly recoiling to clutch his nose. Absently, he inspected the stranger, all the while trying to stem the flow of blood which was steadily dripping from his nose, inwardly wailing at the injustice of it all — across the street, Hana was barely stifling her laughter. The guy had seemed so _small! _From both the front and the back! In fact, Kiba had spent half an hour following the stranger, inspecting the slight body, the tiny wrists, the long fingers — and he'd pretty much judged that the guy was a pansy, likely to fall flat on his face in the event of a fight.

He hadn't expected to come up against a fucking _ninja. _

Oh, the world was cruel.

Still, at least he had the guy's wallet — and he let himself grin at that, making the stranger narrow his eyes in suspicion. Kiba spread his left hand apart, holding the wallet with the faded brown leather between his thumb and forefinger, waving it mockingly; and the other scowled, eyes narrowed to the point where, if looks could kill, Kiba would be way worse than dead and buried. He'd have been ripped apart, fed to dogs, had his remains burnt to ashes, and then been scattered all across the world.

He grinned anyway, though, because he was Kiba, and Kiba wasn't scared of anyone — especially guys with hair as stupid as _that. _

"Dude, I ought to give you this back, just so you can go and get yourself a haircut."

"I've got a better idea," the stranger replied, easily, not moving, hands tucked in his pockets. "You're going to give me it back anyway, and I'm not going to get a haircut."

"I don't think you know what compromise is."

"I do. It's just not something I'm used to."

Kiba frowned, tilting his head, one hand still holding the wallet. The boy was thin — fragile, in his opinion — but fast. He'd seen that much already; he hadn't been ready for an attack, or expecting one, and so when an attack came, he was stopped pretty easily. But Kiba's fingers were just as fast, and he'd yanked the wallet nonetheless, and would have gone on his merry way, had he not felt the need to gloat for a few seconds. And, well, he was sort of in a mess now, because the guy obviously wasn't just going to let him saunter away and, judging from the punch beforehand and the mocking tone of voice, the other was pretty sure he'd win any upcoming fight.

"Fine," he said, finally, brow furrowed as he attempted to talk his way out of it, "I'll give you your wallet, on one condition — and, c'mon, hear me out. I'm hardly living the high life, at the moment, so buy me and my sister a sandwich, and you can take your wallet back. And then we'll all go our merry ways. Deal?"

The boy raised an eyebrow. "If you're trying to make deals, then you obviously think I'm going to _beat_ you."

"No, I just don't want to ruin your pretty face."

"Fuck you."

"Not anytime soon, pretty boy."

* * *

Sasuke punched him again.

In all fairness, he _deserved _it.

But the guy sprang back, this time, and Sasuke's punch lost a little bit of its power. The other gripped his arm, grinning wolfishly, and then tugged him forwards; a quick, short, sharp jerk, which sent him staggering towards the other, straight into the line of a punch. He doubled over, gasped for breath, and then pulled himself back up, in as short a time as possible, then spinning on his left foot for a kick. The other let out a little squeak of surprise, before falling — making sure to tug Sasuke down with him.

Through a series of punches, kicks and lots of rolling, the other guy somehow managed to pin Sasuke to the floor.

He wondered, absently, if the entire world hated him.

"Is it a deal _now, _pretty boy?"

Sasuke considered head-butting the other — but, in retrospect, it wouldn't have been worth it — before shrugging lopsidedly, attempting to shift out from underneath the other boy. When he found that he couldn't move at all, and would probably be pinned against the ground until he agreed — and that guy had no _shame_, seriously — Sasuke nodded. "But stop calling me pretty."

* * *

Kiba resisted the urge to victory dance. It wasn't the right moment — he could do that later. Instead, he stood up, stretching a hand out to the other, and tugging him to his feet. "So, what _should_ I call you?"

"I'd prefer it if you just didn't speak to me."

"Embarrassed?"

"Yes."

"Would it be okay if I victory dance'd right now?"

"No." The stranger paused, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. "You're annoying. Call me Sasuke."

"Like that isn't something I've been told before," Kiba grinned, before stretching out a hand. "'kay, Sasuke. You can call me Sex God. But, since that'd be a little awkward when we're in company, just call me Kiba."

Sasuke peered at the other's hand for a moment, as if he was looking for some sort of trick; but then, after a moment of hesitation, he shook the other's hand, because it was better than just standing there and looking stupid. For a moment, they just stood there, shaking hands, one of them beaming, the other looking rather irritated, before Sasuke pulled his hand away and _then _punched the other. Kiba swore loudly, spinning away, rubbing his nose once again, and Sasuke folded his arms over his chest, expression blank.

"What was _that_ for?" Kiba snapped, eyes watering as he scowled at the other.

"You _stole_ my wallet," Sasuke replied, "And then pinned me to the floor. I believe it was justified."

"Dude, I think you gave me concussion."

* * *

.

.

.

* * *

"Sakura, don't sugarcoat it — does Sasuke hate me?"

Sakura peered at her friend over the brim of her coffee cup, inspecting him idly. Blue eyes, blonde hair — he hadn't changed at all, since she'd seen him broken like a doll, flying through the air after being hit by a car. Still, he hadn't explained any of it to her, although she'd managed to piece most of the jigsaw pieces together. He'd told Sasuke, though.

Apparently, Sasuke had punched him.

Which was, in Sakura's opinion, a little unfair.

"Most likely, at the moment," Sakura replied, returning to stirring her hot drink, not looking at Naruto. "You should probably apologize."

Naruto let out a wail of despair.

"But I didn't _do_ anything!"

"That's probably true, as well," she continued, wrapping her hands around her cup and blowing at the steam. "But you apologizing will make Sasuke feel as if he's right. And then he'll probably let you back into the flat, again."

"That's not _fair!"_

"Once again, you have a point," she finished, taking a sip of her coffee. "But both you and Sasuke are _stubborn. _Like mules. Or boys. Neither of you wants to break, but one of you will _have_ to break first, so be the mature one, and let yourself break. Then Sasuke will break, and you can hug it out, or whatever it is you two do."

"We normally punch each other for a little while."

She stared at him.

"I worry about you two."

And Naruto flashed her a grin.

"If you didn't, Sakura — who _would?"_

_

* * *

_

_._

_._

_._

_

* * *

_

After the entire debacle with the professor yesterday, Shikamaru had been given a stern telling-off. Which, really, he didn't care about; he'd been close to falling asleep through _that_, too, and it had only been because of his mother that he'd even bothered staying awake — if he got himself expelled, she would kill him.

No, he took that back.

She would _castrate_ him. And then maybe kill him, if she was in a good mood.

So he'd sat upright and nodded at all the right moments, and pretended to be sorry, and looked a little bit ashamed of himself, and then yawned quite loudly right near the end of the lecture — and the entire thing had started up all over again. The professor had shouted and shouted, and then opened a door, and brought in a boy with pale skin and pale hair and a sharp-toothed grin, and then pointed at him, and said, "This is Suigetsu. He is a fellow delinquent, much like _yourself_, so I'm sure the two of you will have all kinds of fun. If he doesn't pass his mathematics class, you're _both_ expelled."

Shikamaru was pretty sure they couldn't do that, but he hadn't felt the need to argue then, and so he'd just nodded and agreed.

Which was how he'd gotten himself into his current situation, tied to a chair by the leads of some game controllers, as Suigetsu sat slouched across his sofa, watching television and drinking beers. Shikamaru wondered, absently, if he were allowed to fall asleep — Suigetsu had made it pretty clear he didn't want to do any math — in fact, that was why Shikamaru was tied to a chair to begin with. So, well, sleeping sounded like a good idea.

A brilliant idea.

So he was about to fall asleep, when the door to the flat opened and someone else fell into their merry mess.

* * *

Juugo wasn't surprised.

When Suigetsu had said he was getting a math tutor, he really should have seen this coming; in fact, Juugo himself had two, because he was awful at math, and it seemed like the right thing to get. Besides, he was generally a nice enough guy to teach; he tried his hardest and he learned — but Suigetsu was different. He seemed, for lack of better words, unable to learn, at all — and Juugo often wondered why the idiot even _went_ to college, especially since he loathed it so much. But when Suigetsu had said, "Hey, I'm gettin' myself a tutor," Juugo had applauded him. He'd celebrated with beer. He _hated_ beer.

Still, he'd really thought Suigetsu was pulling his socks up.

He stepped into the room, took one glance at the boy tied to the chair — it was that Nara kid, he thought, maybe; the narcoleptic kid, who fell asleep at the drop of a hat — and then marched across to Suigetsu and punched him fully in the face. He hadn't really expected Suigetsu's face to then splatter, showering him with droplets of water, and Juugo took a step backwards, attempting to pat the droplets away. Meanwhile, Suigetsu's face began to reform.

* * *

Shikamaru blinked.

He decided he was probably dreaming.

This was all pretty surreal.

(But then he thought of Karin, of the boy on the news, and decided that it wasn't really that weird at all — just troublesome.)

* * *

"That is _disgusting."_

"You're the one who _broke_ my _face,_" Suigetsu replied, scowling.

"I didn't think you were just going to splatter everywhere," Juugo snapped, crossing his arms over his chest — there was still water on his shirt; so, what, was that bits of Suigetsu's face soaked into his clothes? It just wasn't worth thinking about. "That's disgusting. And weird. Plus, we have company."

Suigetsu blinked, before looking past Juugo at Shikamaru. "What, _him?_ Like Shika's gonna tell anyone."

"Shika?"

"His name's too long. I shortened it."

"Alright, then, _Sui_."

"Funny," Suigetsu scoffed, before turning back to the television, beer still in hand, completely unfazed.

"That's not the issue here, anyway," Juugo frowned, attempting to steer the conversation back to where he'd wanted to take it originally, before he'd punched the other — he jabbed a finger in Shikamaru's general direction, eyes narrowing. "You've tied up your tutor — you said it was _your_ idea to get a tutor in the first place, so why did you even tie him up? Why didn't you just not get a tutor?"

"Because if he didn't have a tutor, he'd be expelled," Shikamaru piped up, with a yawn and a shrug.

Juugo blinked.

"You — _what."_

"Way to sell me out, Shika," Suigetsu snapped, scowling. "I thought we were friends."

"You tied me to a _chair_."

"Touché."

"I can't believe you _lied_ to me!" Juugo cut across, his voice rising with irritation — frustration at not being told, once again, no matter how many times he told Suigetsu to tell him these things, "I _said_ you should tell me if anything bad happens! If anything _big_ happens!"

"I _did_," Suigetsu replied. "I can turn into water an' stuff. Nothin' else is really all that important."

"I can see where he's coming from," Shikamaru agreed.

"Don't side with him! He tied you to a chair—"

"—neither of you are particularly rushing to my rescue, though—"

"—that isn't the point! Suigetsu, untie Shikamaru — and apologize! I'm going to go and get myself a drink, and, when I come back in, he had better be untied; otherwise all hell will be let loose. Do you hear me?"

Suigetsu didn't reply.

Juugo scowled and stomped off into the kitchen.

* * *

There was an awkward silence, as Suigetsu glowered down at his beer, obviously sulking. Shikamaru stared at him, before shrugging, tapping one foot along the floor in an attempt to entertain himself, before finally speaking.

"Eesh, I didn't know you were still living with your mother."

Suigetsu scowled.

"Neither did _I."_

* * *

Juugo stomped around the kitchen, because that was the _mature_ and _adult _thing to do — and, besides, Suigetsu was _annoying. _Irritating. He knew full well the idiot wouldn't untie Shikamaru, purely out of pride and the like, and so he began to prepare a little lecture, or the like, so that he could bore the other to death. Which he probably wouldn't even use. He'd probably just punch Suigetsu, until he gave up. It seemed like a good enough option.

And so he didn't particularly expect to see Shikamaru and Suigetsu sat side by side, game controllers in their hands, as little flickering figures shot zombies on the screen.

"You really untied him?"

"Yeah, I figured I migh' as well. After all, he doesn' _wan' _to tutor me. He said it was troublesome." Suigetsu paused. "Is tha' a good thing?"

"No," Juugo shook his head. "Probably not."

As Suigetsu opened his mouth to reply, Shikamaru held up a hand, rolling his eyes, still using one hand to make the figure jump high into the air, flipping before landing, a spray of bullets hitting the ground and zombies around it. "You bicker like a married couple."

"That's _disgustin', _Shika_."_

"I loathe to do it, but I'm going to agree with Sui. We're nothing _like_ a married couple."

Shikamaru rolled his eyes.

"How troublesome."

* * *

.

.

.

* * *

The cell was cold.

Empty.

So _empty._

He pressed his arms against his chest. Tears. So _cold. _So _empty. _Icicles on his lashes. Snow beneath his feet. It was so _cold. _Awful, awful. He wanted to cry and scream and _die_, because it was oh so cold, he felt as if his heart would, any second now, stop ticking, ticking, ticking. It was oh so, oh so, oh so—

A hand, clad in a black leather glove, reached out for him.

—_warm. _

He wasn't cold anymore.

And the man — his _savior_ — was framed by sunlight; a halo of sunlight, surrounding long, dark hair and pale, pale skin. Cold skin, probably. Like a snake. The sun cast a shadow across his features, and the boy squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of what the other could look like, but there was nothing. Only darkness and shadows.

"You are blessed, child."

_((blessed))_

"Come with me, Haku."

He nodded.

"Who — who are you?"

And the man's smile widened.

"_God."_

.

.

.

.

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* * *

**notes**1**: **this is partly for fran, as well; i hope you're feeling better, now!  
**notes**2**: **also, kiba & sasuke interaction makes me giggle.  
**notes**3**: **please review!


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